


Come to Leave Me

by raziella



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Angels are Dicks, BAMF Sam, Bisexual Dean, First Time, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, John is a complex character, John's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pining, Pre-Series, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sam has moral objections, Season/Series 11, Self-Esteem Issues, Sibling Incest, Teenchesters, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Underage Drinking, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raziella/pseuds/raziella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wanted to change some things - go back and redo the parts that lead to this. He didn't expect to end up here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I've finally started posting this, hallelujah! It's been sitting on my computer for months, nagging me to edit... 
> 
> I'd like to give special thanks o HighlyExplosiveContent who helped me proofread, and the wonderful people who commented on my other works who made me get off my lazy ass.
> 
> This story is complete but it's fine if you want to wait until everything is posted. I'll be updating once a week to give myself time to edit the last bits, I hope you understand.
> 
> Now off you pop! Don't forget to comment/give kudos if you liked it - it really makes my day ^^

 

“So, what can you tell me about the vic?” John asks.

They’re standing in the public library of some mindless little town, seen one seen them all type. They’ve come to look at the body; the first one since they came to town. It’s the third victim in two weeks; all with the same rope marks around their necks, as if they’ve been strangled. There are, however, no rope burns, no indication of the bodies being moved and their necks aren’t broken. Hanged, but no physical evidence of it beyond the markings.

The police officer glances up at him when John asks and raises an eyebrow at Dean, who’s standing just a step behind John, looking around the crime scene with curious eyes. John flashes the officer a brief smile.

“This is my partner, Detective Beards. He’s in training.”

The officer nods as if this makes sense and tells them about the victim. It’s the same as with all the rest, nothing new, nothing that can lead them forward in their case. Of course, the local police does not know that what killed the three victims, and another two four years ago, is a ghost.

John thanks the officer and picks up his EMF-meter, confirming there are heavy readings around the body. It’s a full red line when he encounters the wall next to a door to the basement, but strangely nothing but a small blip at the actual door.

“Whazzat mean?” Dean asks, eying the meter suspiciously.

“It means there’s something in the walls”, murmurs John and strokes his hand against the cold, flat surface.

“What’s in the wall?” a voice behind him asks.

John turns around and looks _up_ , surprising by itself. The guy’s huge. Wide shoulders, muscled arms, solid chest slimming down to a tight waist, all very pronounced by the slick suit. What catches John is the calm gaze the guy levels him with. John relaxes and offers a smile, silently turning the EMF-meter off and slipping it into his pocket.

“Detective Gibbons, this is my partner Detective Beards”, John says and offers his hand.

The other man takes it immediately. “Gibbons and Beards”, he says with a smile tugging on his lips and John’s heart leaps into his throat. “I’m agent Fuller, FBI”, he goes on without further comment. His eyes are roaming over John’s body and face, searching for something. When he notices John looking back at him, his face shuts down completely, nothing but seriousness remaining, leaving John to doubt what he saw. “So, have you been following the case from the start then?”

He presents his badge to John and Dean and holds it out up close for them both to inspect. Much longer than John could ever do, what with his being fake and made at Kinko’s.

“Just arrived, actually. With three stiffs in as many days the deputy thought it was best to send in reinforcements”, John says and wipes a hand through his hair.

He’s sweating bullets. One phone call up to the office would negate all he’s saying and FBI, the real FBI, they’re usually thorough. And never too keen on the locals trying to butt in too much on what they consider their investigation, once taken over.

“Same as me, then. Just sent down from DC this morning.” Agent Fuller looks at them and stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “So”, he says and nods at the wall behind John and Dean. “What’s in the wall?”

Briefly, John draws a complete blank. He can bullshit himself out of getting pulled in for everything from public inebriation to grave desecration, but this guy? John glances at the guy who is stood relaxed with his hands in his pockets. A small tug is playing in his lip, barely there but unmistakable, like he’s thinking of a joke only he’s privy to.

“Mold”, says Dean behind him and John casts a quick glance at him.

Agent Fuller raises his eyebrows in question. “Mold?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a small allergy and was wondering where my sneezing was coming from, and, um, yeah, it’s definitely the walls.”

No one says anything, Agent Fuller looking at Dean, flicking over to John and on to the wall. Dean shuffles a little and John refrains from smacking his head. Eventually Agent Fuller makes an interested ‘huh’ kind of noise.

“Well, let’s review what we know, shall we?” Agent Fuller says and John draws a breath in relief.

They spend the good portion of an hour going through everything they know about the victim and the events. Everything they know being, of course, heavily censured for supernatural phenome. John listens closely to whatever Agent Fuller says, realizing both that the guy is smart, bringing up theories that are both plausible and out-of-the-box thinking, and that it’s an excellent opportunity to study a real agent from the federal bureau.

Nevertheless it seems like a dead end until Agent Fuller in bypassing mentions the murder-suicide that took place four years previous, and John latches onto the gruesome details and family shame. It’s all but in the bag when Agent Fuller happily complies to print out a list of the people involved in the incident, writing off John’s interest to small town police dedication.

“Frankly I’d be stumped”, Agent Fuller says, “but I’ve actually seen something similar. We had this case back in ’89 where people kept dropping. No evidence left behind, no marks, no nothing. And they clearly weren’t suicides”, Agent Fuller explains.

“Did you solve it?” John can’t help but ask, knowing that if they are, in fact, the same, then the FBI would never have found the real perpetrator.

Agent Fuller smiles, dimples showing and it’s absurd for a grown man to look so boyish.

“It’s classified”, he says, “but off the record?” eyes swimming with mirth, “Yeah, sure did.”

He winks at Dean who looks mighty offended and stomps off. John looks after him, confused and then turns back to Agent Fuller.

“Anything from that case that can be helpful to us now?”

He doesn’t even know why he’s asking. He knows _what_ it is and after Agent Fuller’s explanation of the events that took place here four years ago, he’s pretty sure of _who_ , too.

“It was strange. The deaths tied back to the victims from the murder that took place years before. It’s interesting that these cold cases are brought up again. Almost like the story wasn’t quite finished”, Agent Fuller muses and John stares at him. “Take a look at this case. The sister…” the agent leans over to point in the file. “Loner type, kind but reserved. She worked in this library, back in the storage section, packing and what-not, and then one night, doesn’t come home. Her family calls the police and in the morning they find her and her brother hanging from the ceiling.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I’m thinking the brother did it. Witness accounts say they were tight, but the sister had just started seeing someone and the brother didn’t approve. Killed her, couldn’t live with the consequences and then offed himself.”

“And how does this tie back to our investigation?” John asks, even as he’s mentally compiling a list of things he need to look up.

“Still working on it”, Agent Fuller admits and snaps the file together.

He would make an excellent hunter, if he ever knew the truth of what goes bump in the night.

Finally, there is nothing left to add and they pack away. John and Dean will head to the cemetery in a couple of hours, dig up the sister’s grave, salt and burn the remains. This will be the last they see of Agent Fuller, as they’ll be long gone by morning.

 

~*~

 

**8 hours earlier _or_ 19 years later**

_Heat._

_Blazing, overbearing. The air is so black Sam can’t see a foot in front of him. The smoke is billowing out thick, burning in his eyes. He coughs and covers his mouth with his sleeve, but it’s useless; the smoke inhalation alone will kill him and with no way out from the forest where branches are falling over him, the shrubbery creating a wall of smoldering heat, reaching towards him, he’ll burn._

_The all-consuming fire surrounding him, licking at his skin, catching in his clothes, burning his flesh – the smell crawls up his nose, his throat, it takes him back to the Cage, as if he never left. He tries to scream but there is no air in his lungs. He coughs and it scratches his throat raw. His skin is bubbling, fizzling as it melts._

_He blinks his eyes open, tries to see through his tears, ignores the way the smell of burning flesh makes his stomach roll, and squints through the light._

_He needs to get to Dean._

 

~*~

 

**14 hours later _or_ 19 years earlier**

It’s a routine salt and burn up until it isn’t.

John’s standing guard with his rifle loaded with rock salt, while Dean digs. They’ve been at it for maybe two hours already and their muscles are complaining, but they’ve made a lot of progress. They’re almost at the bottom, John can tell from the scraping coming up from the hole where Dean’s dragging the shovel across the buried casket.

John notices the cold at the same time as Dean’s yelling “Incoming!” He raises his gun and fires at the grey figure materializing a couple of feet away. He barely has time to notice the deteriorated face before she dissolves into smoke and disappears.

“You about ready to pop it?” John asks and Dean grunts.

John keeps on the look-out when Dean picks up the crowbar. Older graves usually have lower quality and the wood has already started rotting, but with this one, it’s impossible to use anything than hard metal to bend it open at the seams. He listens to the telltale groaning from the nails bent out of shape when the lid is being torn off.

The ghost of Victoria Courtney has time to materialize one more time before Dean gets his hands on the salt and accelerator. She stretches her arms out towards John and starts choking him with see-through hands and he barely has time to push her away with his iron-ringed fingers before she catches fire. She wails in agony as her soul disintegrates and John pats himself down to make sure he didn’t catch fire.

Dean’s slumped over on the ground, breathing heavily and grins when John breathes a sigh of relief. Ghost gone, case closed and another town safe, continuing their lives completely unaware of the war taking place amidst them. A sense of accomplishment slithers through his chest. He shakes his head when the adrenaline leeches from his body and he allows himself to feel the exhausting in his bones.

It’s pure temptation to sink down next to Dean and a sign of his pigheadedness when he instead starts packing up. Dean looks like he wants to protest but eventually decides to swallow his groan and gets up to help. It’s an odd combination of pride and guilt that lingers when he sees his oldest starts filling in the grave again.

As the fire dies, the cold creeps in and it takes longer than it should for John to realize that it isn’t natural. The degrees drop quickly but it isn’t until a large puff of mist expels from his mouth that he casts around for his gun. He sees it lying by the headstone a few feet away, tossed aside when the danger passed.

Air whooshes around his ears before he realizes what’s happening but he registers Dean yelling at him as he’s flung in the air. The world spins wildly when his sense of gravity abandons him and he barely has time to think _damn, what’d we miss_ , before pain splits the back of his head and everything goes dark.

When he blinks his eyes open again he’s blissfully unaware of everything. His head is hurting and he’s swallowing grass and dirt and it’s dark enough to make him wonder if he has gone blind. Then reality crashes back and sits up fast enough to make his head spin and he almost vomits.

He swirls around to look for Dean and has to squint to make out his hazy shape through eyes that won’t seem to focus. He’s him facing off another ghost. It’s going badly. The ghost, a guy this time, is pushing Dean into the ground, hands around his neck.

He gets to his feet but they give out underneath him. He uses the headstone he was thrown against for support and looks around for a weapon. Dean’s being choked to death and John listens to his gasping breaths in desperation.

Trying to remain rational thought even as his body threatens to seize up, he sifts through his memories trying to remember if there are any suspects or if they’re just lucky enough to run into the one ghost hunt where more than one spirit was haunting the town.

Finally he locates the salt bag and he pushes towards it, but the sounds must have notified the ghost because it turns around. John has just enough time to place him as the brother, who murdered his sister, before he’s thrown to the ground by that same invisible force. His back protests the actions and he fumbles to reach for the bag, it just, there…

Dean’s whines are dying down and John makes an inhuman effort to grab the salt and his fingertips are just touching the histioid sack when the force releases him. He swivels around to see what’s happening and hears the ghost scream in anger before it goes up in flames. John watches the spot he disappeared in shock, doesn’t understand because neither of them could have done that and there is no one else that would know to.

He doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, as Dean slumps to the ground and doesn’t move. John heaves himself up and scrambles to get to him. He pulls his head up and presses his ear to his mouth, listens for breathing and almost cries in relief when a warm breath puffs against him.

“Dean, come on, wake up”, he says and checks his pulse. “It was just a stupid ghost, no need for the dramatics.”

He can already see the angry red bruising around his neck, matching the hands of a dead man. His throat will be sore for days, he thinks as he pats his cheek with a gruff hand. It’s not gentle; he’s too riled up for gentle right now.

Finally Dean’s eyelids flutter and he twitches when John keeps on patting him. He draws in a couple of labored breaths and snaps his eyes open.

“Wha’ the fuck ‘r you doin’?” he grumbles and pushes John’s hand away. “Stop hitting me, I’m awake”, he says and sits up with a groan.

John doesn’t quite have time to answer before the sound of footsteps approaching have them both tensing up. John ransacks his mind for a reasonable explanation. Even detectives investigating a case doesn’t have much place in a graveyard at night with a dug-up grave, a burnt corpse and an immobilized partner.

When he looks up the newcomer has come close enough to be distinguishable in the pale moonlight and John goes cold, because while he might have been able to talk himself out of with had it been a civilian, or even a small town cop, he won’t be able to pull the wool over an FBI agent.

“Agent Fuller”, he starts all the same, but the agent doesn’t slow down.

“Is he all right?” Agent Fuller asks and skids to a halt not two feet away and drops down to his knees.

John grapples for words and tries to squelch the instinct to put Dean behind him and take on the threat to his family. All the while, the agent puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and almost wrenches him around.

“Did it get to you?” Agent Fuller asks and it takes a second for that to register because the agent hadn’t asked what happened or if _he_ had got to Dean. He asked if _it_ did.

Dean seems equally bewildered but he shakes his head and rubs gingerly at his throat. “Choked me a bit, but he’s gone now. I’m fine”, he wheezes out.

Agent Fuller winces at the sound just as John does. “Thank god”, he says and sits back a bit, apparently realizing for the first time how close he’s hovered over them. “I wasn’t sure I got the right item, and you weren’t answering your phones.”

It finally dawns on John why it’s not adding up, why the agent isn’t asking the right questions. “You’re the one who got the other ghost!” he exclaims and Agent Fuller looks to him, surprised.

“Well, yeah. I got you were going after the sister but going over the notes I realized it had to be a double-job and started looking at who else could be involved”, Agent Fuller explains. “The new partner wasn’t it; still alive, happily married. But the brother, well, suicides are only voluntary when of sound mind and he was off his rockers by the end. So, yeah”, Agent Fuller explains with a shrug. “He was cremated, as per his will, so I went by the house and found out he kept all his baby teeth in a little jar in his room.”

“You’re a hunter”, John says as all that sinks in. “And an FBI agent?”

Agent Fuller laughs gets to his feet. “Hardly. Just a regular, run-of-the-mill hunter with a fake badge. Just like you.”

“You’re impersonating a federal agent?” John asks incredulously.

He can’t say if he’s upset at Agent, not agent, he revises, Fuller’s guts or at himself for not even suspecting it. Fuller looks at him strangely and John feels very self-conscious all of a sudden.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

Dean huffs a laugh at him and John cuffs him over the head.

“Yeah, a detective. Something inconspicuous that won’t raise any eyebrows or warrant a second look at my ID. How many FBI agents do you think go around investigating strangulations in a small town as this, that’s never even crossed state boundaries?”

Fuller doesn’t seem that much younger than John, might even be older given the heavy set eyes and whatever shit he’s carrying around on his shoulders, but John wants to smack him over the head for his foolishness. He doesn’t, of course. It’s not his place.

“Maybe so, but trust me when I say that people will question you a lot less if you’re from the federal bureau than some semi-local guy that no one’s ever seen before. People don’t want to be tangled up in federal things and you’re given immediate access to _everything_.”

It’s a sound argument and going by the expression on Fuller’s face, he knows it.

“Anyway, we should get out of here. It’ll be light soon and that church has morning mass”, he says and points to the little church up by the hill.

John gets to his feet and helps Dean up. Together they pack up their things, fill in the last of the grave and get out of there. John’s just shutting the trunk-lid when Fuller clears his throat behind him. He turns around with a raised brow in question.

“So, the case is closed. You guys did a good job, and I’m thankful for that, even if we were conducting a separate investigation”, Fuller says and smiles sardonically.

John nods. “Likewise. That was some solid research you had going and good thinking on the partner thing. I owe you one.”

“Don’t sweat it”, Fuller says but John insists.

It’s not so much a code as an understanding between hunters. “You saved my life. And if that’s not good enough, you saved Dean’s.” He pauses to let that sink in. “If you ever need anything, give me a call.”

Fuller looks at him for a long moment and John stares back, squarely. He nods. “I’m guessing you’re heading out tonight?”

“Gotta go pick up my youngest but yeah, then we’re off.”

Fuller freezes for a second before he carefully blanks out all expressions and John wonders what caused that reaction. Surely it’s not that odd to leave his kid for a few hours to go on a hunt. He knows plenty hunters with kids too young to go along.

“Right”, Fuller says weakly. “I guess I’ll see you around then.”

John doesn’t notice when Dean comes up behind him so he startles when he speaks. “What’s your name?” Fuller blinks at him, a flash of something in his eyes, there and gone in a moment. “I’m guessing it’s not Fuller”, Dean continues with his barely there voice and smiles.

“Sam”, Fuller, Sam says. “It’s Sam Wesson.”

“I’m Dean, and this is my dad, John”, Dean says and Sam winces.

“It’s nice to meet you”, he says with a thin smile.

“D’you want to come over for drinks?” John finds himself asking and going by Dean and Sam’s reaction, they’re all equally surprised. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a beer after tonight and we could probably do with a night’s sleep before we start driving.”

Sam’s eyes flick briefly to the cemetery they just left but he seems to decide, like John, that there won’t be enough evidence to tie any of them to the place enough for it to be dangerous to stick around another day.

“I’d be happy to.”

~*~

 

_Dean is standing a few feet away from him, back turned and untouched by the fire. He’s wearing that stupid green jacket that’s been ripped more times than Sam can count and still the idiot continues to wear it. Sam has no idea why he catches onto that tidbit of information._

_“Dean!” he tries to scream and is overcome by a coughing-fit when the smoke catches new flight in his lungs._

_Dean doesn’t turn, doesn’t even flinch. He’s just standing there, looking at something. Someone._

_Sam crawls forward on bloody hands and trembling arms, tries to reach him. Through swollen eyes he finally catches a glimpse of the other person. The black dress she’s wearing is billowing out, moving with a wind that exists only in a tight circuit with her as center. The ashes she stand on dance in a dichotomy of beauty and destruction around her feet. The forest floor still all but a foot away. Sam hasn’t seen her more than once, but he recognizes her anyway._

_“NO!” he screams but his voice is broken and through the thick black smoke he’s not sure his words travel but her eyes cut to him, so dark it’s unfathomable._

_Amara raises her hand and, with deliberate care, cups Dean’s face, cradling it, with her gaze still heavily on Sam. He strains to remain upright but it’s like he’s being pushed into the ground. Sister of God, he thinks, what would she be if she wasn’t powerful enough to send men to their knees in her presence? Feeling like his heart is about to explode it takes him a moment to realize he’s actually being pressed down with a force familiar enough from the innumerous encounters he has had with demons in his life._

_If he could feel more pain, he would be screaming. As it is, he watches in horror as Amara takes Dean’s hand. Dean remains impassive, and though Sam doesn’t see his face from this angle, he notices the relaxed shoulders and slightly bowed head. It’s incongruous seeing such body language in his older brother who hasn’t let down his guard in years. Helpless like a little boy he lets his hand be taken and something twists painfully in Sam’s chest, something separate from the physical pain that bombards his body._

_They disappear in a dark swirl of smoke, leaving nothing behind but a forest approaching its last hours as every branch and leaf have burnt and only the tree trunks still glow through the darkness as the embers strain to swallow the wood._

_He closes his eyes._

_His face is wet, he’s not sure if it’s blood or sweat or tears. Might be all three. He thinks he might die, might be dead already. He might welcome it._

~*~

 

**13 hours earlier _or_ 19 years earlier**

Sam wakes up when something pokes him in the shoulder. He comes to slowly, first noticing the hard gravel that’s digging into his cheek. His mouth tastes like road dust and his body feels tender all over, like he’s been mauled over by a truck a couple of times. The sweet smell of decomposition tickles his nose along with a mouthwatering composition of coffee and something grilled in garlic. His stomach rolls and he shifts, fearing he’ll puke. The poking returns to his shoulder and he turns over to see what it is.

“Sir?” a female voice asks and Sam finally focuses his eyes on her.

Young, brunette, dressed in a dress with an apron. The nametag says Penny. Probably a waitress somewhere, Sam’s mind supplies.

He pushes a bent bicycle wheel away from him, wincing when the metal scrapes the gravel. Blinking the dust from his eyes he takes note of where he is. Brick wall, dumpster in the end of the alleyway, no windows. Going on the combination of smells from garbage and cooking, he’d put them outside a restaurant somewhere.

“Sir, are you all right?” Penny asks and her face is a mask of worry.

His muscles tremble but he grits his teeth and rises to his feet. Penny takes a step back, surveying him at full height with something wary creeping into her eyes.

 “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, thank you”, Sam hastens to say and uses the brick wall behind him for support.

The events prior are slowly coming back. Amara, the fire, Dean... He tries to gather saliva to his dry mouth and promptly spits when all he tastes is gravel. Penny looks slightly repulsed by it but she refrains from saying anything.

“Are you sure?” she asks, clearly unconvinced. One of her hands is raised toward him in a hesitant manner that speaks of kindness without naivety. He wishes he could tell her to run. “You were completely passed out on the ground. What happened to you? Do you need me to ring the police for you?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve got a cellphone,” Sam says to which Penny doesn’t respond.

Involving the police would be bad. He’s pretty sure he’s still got his face plastered across the most wanted posters in at least half the states in the US. He sticks his hand in his jean pocket and picking up his phone. Well, one of them.

He briefly considers calling Dean when something strikes him.

“Penny, it’s Penny, right?” he waits for her to nod and continues, “Can you tell me where I am?”

Penny doesn’t answer but stares at his phone with wide eyes. “What is that?” she whispers.

Sam pauses.

No.

Surely not.

“A phone…?” he hazards but when Penny shakes her head, Sam feels his heart drop somewhere in the vicinity of his gut. “It’s a new version, not really on the market yet,” he says, hiding a grimace when it comes out as a question.

Please, dear lord, let there at least be cellphones around. He presses home and confirms there is no service. He stifles a sigh. This is not going at all according to plan.

“It’s, um, July 3rd 1997 and we’re in Little Rock, Arkansas.”

 

~*~

 

_It is a long time before he notices that the heat is dissipating, and the smoke clearing out. It’s not so much that he can breathe again, that it is he becomes aware that the air struggling across his lips doesn’t taste like acid anymore._

_Gingerly, he raises his head. The ground around him is black, barren and smoke is trailing up from it. It looks like the crater of a meteor, or a massive explosion. Not a single tree is left standing, not for miles._

_Sam groans and tries to struggle up. He coughs again, feels the wet quality of it and looks down, sees the blood and promptly vomits more blood. Everything hurts, his insides feel like somebody took an electric screwdriver to them._

_“You’re dying”, someone says and Sam can’t help but agree._

_He has died a few times, different every time, but still, he’s what you’d call a fairly good judge, a specialist. He doesn’t think there are that many that can claim the same. Usually, death is permanent. Idly, he wonders when that changed._

_“I’ve come to reap you”, the voice continues and Sam finally places her._

_Billie._

_Last time he met her, he was also dying. If she wasn’t here to collect his soul and toss it out into the Empty, he might like her. He can’t suppress the chill that goes through him now, though._

_“What? Nothing to say? No arguing?”_

_“Dean still needs me”, Sam chokes out, but his vocal cords are broken. “Amara is still out there. I need to stop her.”_

_“You don’t need to do anything anymore. The joys of_ not being _.”_

 _Billie doesn’t sound like she’s joking, but there is a definite jovial tilt to her voice. Sam notes the lack of the words_ dead _and_ alive _. Right. To cease to exist is all that awaits him now. It’s all he’s fit for._

_Sam scoffs and almost chokes on his own tongue. He tries to swallow and makes a wet sound. Billie takes a step closer and Sam struggles to move away._

_“N-no, please”, he pleads. “I need to save him, I need to-“._

_His words are cut off when a fluttering noise interrupts him. He chokes and looks over to see Castiel-, no Lucifer, standing there. Dressed in the trench coat and the ruffled hair and Jimmy Novak’s face, it twists like a knife, the reminder of Cas’ choice to let the devil in. This is the devil, the fallen angel who spent centuries torturing Sam in Hell’s most guarded prison cell. It itches like something crawling along his spine._

_“I’m sorry but you really need to shut up. Don’t you get tired of listening to your own sad drivel, going on and on and_ on _?” Lucifer says and steps closer._

_“Lucifer”, Billie greets him, calm, but tension is riding her shoulders._

_“Reaper”, Lucifer says with a wink. “I see you’re busy plucking souls, taking them to the beyond, like a dutiful little angel… no?” he asks but he shakes his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “No, I didn’t think so. And I wouldn’t care, but see, this particular soul is a bit of a favorite”, he goes on and bends down into a squat by Sam’s side. “And when I’m done killing the Darkness, I intend to take some time with him.” As he says it, he strokes Sam’s sizzled hair, smiling, more of a showing of his teeth. “I know, you’d think I’d have grown bored of it but I’ve gotten strangely attached…”_

_Sam spits out another glob of blood, tries to struggle out of his grip, but, well, it’s Lucifer. His burnt, flayed skin trembles under the soft caress of the fallen angel. Even as Sam’s skin flares up in heat as the ghostly touch of Lucifer’s fingertips bring new fire to the mess, Sam swallows down the scream that threatens to rip out of his throat._

_“He’s complicit in killing Death. I’m simply making sure he’s staying dead this time”, Billie says and Lucifer looks up at her with an enquiring expression._

_“Dead?” he asks with a head tilt. “No, I don’t think that’s quite right.”_

_Billie stares evenly back at him but doesn’t answer._

_“I know of your petty vendetta and your pathetic attempts at vengeance for your master”, Lucifer drawls. “But regrettably, I’m not letting you take Sam. Because his soul is mine.”_

_Sam makes a protesting sound and Lucifer rolls his eyes. He drops Sam on the ground and rises up in a graceful movement, trench coat fluttering even in the still air._

_“Oh, go die in another corner of Dad’s green earth”, he sighs and snaps his fingers._

_Sam flinches, his eyes closing of their own volition, expecting more pain. He experiences a disorienting feeling as the world warps around him and when it finally stills he lays very still, taking in the silence, the cold tile floor beneath him and the homey smell of books. He doesn’t dare believe it, but when he opens his eyes, he is, miracle of all miracles, in the Bunker._

_He plants his hands on the stone floor, feels its cool surface almost stinging his skin, but when he looks down on them he notices that his burns have all but gone. He breathes in slowly, almost cries when the sweet air enters his body without pain._

_He lets the events of the past hours course through him and then gets to his feet. His legs threaten to give out and he uses the wall for support. The book he’s looking for is already open on the table. It’s an option they’ve been considering for weeks now, but there’s a reason they haven’t gone with it. A last resort, they said. Only if there was truly no other way, they said._

_Dean being taken, without protest, by the Darkness, Sam decides, God abandoning them, the world burning, their friends gone, their last attack launched without success; this is it._

_When all the ingredients are assembled and his packed bag slung across his shoulder, he casts a last glance at the warning inscribed in the margins. His decision is already made, but none the less, he memorizes them, contemplates them and gets going._

 

Be cautious of changing the past,

for its consequences reach beyond

_He picks up the white chalk, paints the necessary sigils in the table, drops the ingredients into the copper bowl and cuts his hand and lets it bleed into the mash of herbs. He starts the incantation, the Enochian words familiar on his lips._

Let me go back and fix this, _he thinks desperately_. Just this one thing.

 

~*~

 

Walls descend before his eyes. He wobbles and smacks his head against the wall when he tries to catch himself. Pain explodes in the back of his head and all the air rushes out from his lungs. Slowly, he slides down the wall to the ground again.

This cannot be. This isn’t even close to where he wanted to go. It’s too far. The things he wants to change aren’t going to happen for years, decades, and that’s not taking into account what his presence could do to the timeline. He’s not stupid; trouble has a way of finding him, and he won’t be able to sit back and watch it happen without trying to interfere.

Vaguely he registers Penny trying to catch his attention but he’s not ready to deal with her yet. He’s stuck in 1997 without his brother, without an angel, friendly or not, to help him back, without any kind of back-up. No one even knows he’s here, or cares, because they’re all dead or taken over by either the Devil or the Darkness. Screwed is such a vast understatement it’s not even funny.

He drags his fingers through his hair and pulls. Calm down, think, what _do you_ have, he thinks. The pain isn’t so much anchoring as it reminds him that yeah, things could be worse. Things have been worse and, somehow, he has always, if not exactly survived, at least made it through. He can do this.

So, 1997. Well, it’s not so bad. They obviously don’t have smartphones or touchscreens, hence Penny’s disbelief, but phones were pretty common by then – by now? He’ll look into the coverage and see if he can’t get service somewhere in town.

“Do you know where I can find a cheap motel in the area?” asks Sam, slowly climbing to his feet again.

He slips the phone back into his pocket. It’s useless now anyway. He finds his bag slung into a corner at the end of the alley, almost completely hidden by the dumpster. At least he wasn’t robbed. He makes his way over to it, checking its contents. He plucks a loose lettuce leaf from it and flings it away while listening for Penny’s answer. Which doesn’t come.

When he casts a look over his shoulder he sees she has gone. He can’t blame her. He’s clearly not stable and she should stay away from trouble. Makes you live longer.

At a small café three blocks down he gets ahold of an address. He borrows a car to get there and only feels a little bad.

It’s been a while since that horrible year when they had Baby on lockdown and kept having to hotwire cars to get around. The mess the Leviathans did still have him and Dean ducking from too observant police officers as they pass through small towns.

He picks up some food and a newspaper on the way. He pays with bills that won’t be printed for another fifteen years and Sam prays they never find out.

The motel is so non-descript that Sam feels an odd burst of nostalgia. They don’t stay in motels that often anymore, not since they found the Bunker. It’s still strange how Dean declared it home. How he decorated his room, like a nesting bird. Surreal. But they still spend a great deal of their lives on the road and then, as they travel the country, most nights in motel rooms just like this one.

When he gets the key, he starts by securing the perimeter, salt, devil’s traps and angel proofing. It’s so standard these days he doesn’t even stop to think that this is years before they opened the Hell Gates and few demons roam the Earth.

He spends a few minutes going through Dad’s journal. Of all the books he thought he would need, this was the last. The Men of Letter’s library is so extensive they have hardly needed to consult Dad’s old notes in what feels like forever. Still, it’s useful for its dates and descriptions of what they were facing this year, and what Dad thought about them.

They’ve added to the pages over the years. Made new entries and corrected facts that Dad got wrong. It’s strange to think back to the days where Dad’s word was law. Even at Sam’s most rebellious age, he always trusted Dad knew what he was talking about.

Looking through the familiar entries he paints himself a picture. This is the year he and Dean and Dad hunt a werewolf. It’s before he ran away, before he met Amy, before he knew about demons even. Dad kept that card close to his chest for many more years.

It isn’t until he finds a small entry about Little Rock that he realizes they might be here. Not some random hunt in a no name town with forgettable faces and disremembered monsters, but here. Standard hunt gone sideways. Dean spent a week in hospital. Dad on a binge so long Sam had wondered if he had skipped town.

Sam had been too young to go with them, and the journal doesn’t go into specifics, but he feels the urge he always gets when nosing a case. Even the dates match. If he goes out, tracks down the crime scene, he could encounter his dad and brother.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know what will change. But he wants to. He aches with it.

He gets to his feet and picks out his fed suit.

 

~*~

 

Dean is trying not to stare at the stranger.

He drove the car after he and Dad back to the motel, parked right next to theirs and laughed, saying they have the same taste. Then he wandered off to his own room to get changed. He showed up fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in comfortable jeans and plaid.

Dean has seen a hundred hunters dressed the same way, his dad and himself included, but somehow, on Fu-, Sam, it’s different. He’s wearing it differently.

Right now he’s sitting in their kitchen, leaning back on the spindly chair that’s barely large enough for him, with his legs sprawled out comfortably. He laughs at something Dad’s saying and sips on a beer.

He drank the first one that Dad spiked with holy water without problem and happily admired the knife Dean showed him, his silver one. When he handed it back, he winked at Dean in a way that makes him think the hunter knew it was a test all along.

He seems at home here, in their motel kitchen, with people he only met virtually hours ago. It’s a far cry from the professional agent they ran into yesterday and much more relaxed than the worried hunter they met tonight.

Dean’s sipping on his own beer, swallows painfully around his bruised throat and quickly looks away when Fu- _Sam’s_ eyes find his.

“So, Dean”, Sam says and Dean snaps back to him with a guilty churning in his gut. “How long’ve you been hunting?”

“I went on my first hunt when I was around eight, I think”, Dean says and honestly can’t remember. It feels like he has always been hunting. “Couldn’t always go what with Sammy needing someone to look after him.”

“Dean’s always been such a little caretaker”, John adds and laughs as Dean flushes. “Sammy’s my youngest, he’s asleep right now but maybe you’ll see him tomorrow.”

“He’s doesn’t go with you on hunts?” Sam asks with an odd voice and Dean looks at him.

“He’s a little nerd and prefers staying home to study”, Dean says, a teasing smile threatening to spill over his lips.

Sam’s not looking at him, though. He’s studying Dad very carefully. John seems to notice this, too, because he shrugs.

“Sam’s a smart kid. He doesn’t like hunting and I figured this was an easy enough case for Dean and me to deal with alone.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Sam asks, voice carefully neutral.

John clears his throat and shifts a little.

“Well, he’s gonna have to learn eventually, unless he leaves, and I figure I’d give him time to find something else, if that’s what he wants. I’ve never heard of a hunter who gets out, but he was born into it, and, I dunno, maybe it’s different.”

Sam nods but Dean notices the tense lines to his shoulders. He has no idea what’s going through Sam’s mind but it leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Quiet absorbs the room. Dean listens for sounds of Sammy waking up but the bedroom door is shut and with a stranger in the kitchen it’s unlikely he would come out anyway. Shy little dork, Dean thinks and takes a drag of his beer.

“Where’re you headed next?” Sam asks, breaking the awkward silence.

“We haven’t heard anything strange to check out so we’re heading north towards South Dakota. There’s a hunter that we know in Sioux Falls and the boys usually spend some time there during summer.”

It looks like someone dropped a bowl of cold water over Sam. His face pales and contorts when so many things flash across his features that Dean can’t begin to interpret them. It would look funny but it’s too painful. Sam’s clutching his beer in a grip tight enough to make Dean worry about the integrity of the glass.

“Bobby”, he whispers in a half-rumble. “You’re talking about Bobby Singer”, Sam states because it’s definitely not a question.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised you know him. The man has a net of contacts wider than the president”, John says and smiles. “I’ve known him for years; used to drive me mad, but damn if he isn’t the best hunter I’ve ever met”, he goes on and there is a warmth coating his words that takes Dean by surprise because whenever his dad’s on the phone with Uncle Bobby, it ends up in a screaming-match that rivals the ones he has with Sammy, and then walks around with fists clenched the rest of the day, muttering darkly under his breath.

“Yeah, definitely, yeah”, Sam breathes. “Bobby’s the best.”

He sounds so blown away by something so mundane. Dean briefly considers a fall-out but it doesn’t make sense that Sam would sound so surprised. If he wanted to talk to Bobby, make up or whatever, he could have just driven there, or phoned him.

“How’d you meet him?” John asks, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s not sensing the atmosphere or if he’s purposefully choosing to ignore it in favor of information.

Sam hesitates then blows air slowly out through his mouth. “On a hunt. Of course.”

“Of course”, John laughs. “Probably rolled in like he owned the place and dictated what to do, too. Like a said, a damn good hunter, but man if he doesn’t get on your nerves.”

Sam is chuckling but it’s weak and he drains his beer before standing up to go get them seconds. “Sure did, but he’s saved my life more times than I care to count, so I figure I’ll forgive him”, Sam says and pops the caps and passes them around.

“Truer words”, John says and clinks his beer against Sam’s in thanks. “To a wise fart whose wet nose is the reason we’re all still here”, he says and drinks deep.

The conversation turns pleasant after that and many hunting stories are exchanged. Sam seems to have spent much of his life hunting and tells the most hair-raising, nightmare-inducing stories Dean has ever heard. He laughs until he cries when Sam describes his endeavors with his partner and how they ended up chasing fairies, and who knew those were real? His dad and he returns with stories of witches that turned out to be cosplayers and the one time Dean was arrested for molestation when he was trying to check if it was a shifter.

They drink most of the beer and the clock ticks closer to dawn but no one seems willing to call the night over. Dean hasn’t seen his dad this relaxed in ages and there’s something compelling about Sam. Something drawing him in. Maybe it’s the kind smile or way he just seems to fit.

“So where’re you from, son?” John asks and Dean holds his breath.

Sam clears his throat and looks down the bottle of his beer as if the answer will be provided if he stares deep enough. “Born in Kansas, but my family moved away before I really got a chance to experience it.”

“Kansas”, Dad says, wondering. “Same as my boys. Lived there for many years. Would probably be there still if…” he runs out of words after that but Dean knows what would have come.

_If Mom hadn’t been killed and thrust Dad into the Life, forcing him on the road, chasing every lead until he either found the bastard who did it or died trying._

Dean looks at Sam to see his reaction. He looks sympathetic, eyes so sad that Dean could have sworn he knew. Then again, Sam has his own sad story. Probably every hunter they’ve ever met has their own tragic past, that one thing that opened their eyes to the supernatural world, ripping away their normal forever.

“I’m sorry”, Sam says and it’s so emphatic that Dean can’t help but wonder.

“It happens”, Dad says, letting it go for all intents and purposes. “What about you, Sam? How’d you stumble into this life?”

Sam looks at him for a long time, face unreadable. “Raised in it”, he says eventually. “Tried to get out a couple of time, but you know…”

“You never get out”, Dad fills in and Sam nods.

The moment hangs there, suspended. Somewhere out on the highway the first truck of the day roars by. A lonely bird squeaks unattractively.

Finally they have to admit defeat and they head off to bed. There’s barely any point with the sun rising in the east over the forest, turning the day a gray orange, but they can’t safely get behind the wheel without at least a couple of hours of shut eye.

His dad ends up inviting Sam to go with them and Sam, who doesn’t appear to have any plans of his own, graciously accepts.

Late morning they get wind of a case they think might be a wendigo in Pennsylvania and head east. They never do end up going to visit Uncle Bobby and no one mentions it again.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY! So I totally lied about the update schedule, but to be fair, who knew that working two part-time jobs, taking my driver's permit and studying full time would take up so much time? I didn't, that's for sure... Anyway, I'd just like to say that I've read your comments and I cherish every word. Your encouragement means the world to me, so thank you!!
> 
> Furthermore, I won't make update promises because my life is crazy right now, but the story IS finished and I'll try to update fairly regularly. I'm sorry and thank you to all of you who stick with me through this.

Sam sticks around after that. Dean’s not sure when he went from just random hunter that they teamed up with, to an integral part of their hunting routine, but a few weeks in, Dad is including Sam in the planning as if he has been there since the start. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

Sam is an amazing hunter. That much becomes obvious very quickly. He knows more about lore than anyone Dean has ever met. He’s better than Dad. Better than Bobby. And if you know anything about Bobby, you know that’s pretty damn impressive.

Dad will sit, digging through piles of research, dragging up old reports and looking through books thick as the entire span of Dean’s hand, and sigh in frustration, open up a beer and drag his hands through his hair. Sam will watch him. He seems to intuitively know not to disturb Dad during this process, even if he has only been with them for a short while. Then, when it seems like Dad has hit a dead end, Sam will sweep in, present the information like they never would have thought to look at it, and just give him the answer. And he’s spot on. _Every time_.

It’s not Sam’s impressive repertoire of knowledge that Dean’s admiring right now, though.

Sam is a big guy. It’s something you’ll notice the first time he stops slouching down trying to make himself smaller. He’s tall, wide-shouldered with arm muscles bulging out as he pulls himself up in shin-ups using the doorcase. Shirtless. He’s breathing in a controlled but labored manner and the sweat is running off him in bullets. He has got his hair pulled up in a ponytail. It should look ridiculous; had it been anyone else, Dean would have teased them mercilessly, but it’s impossible to laugh when Sam’s looking so-

Dean is standing there staring at him like a creep. He saw Sam get back from his run through the window of their adjacent room, and just thought he’d run over real quick to ask him about something research-related before he got in the shower. He hadn’t realized Sam’s workout wasn’t done yet.

“Heya, Dean”, Sam pants when he notices him.

He drops down from the case and walks over to his nightstand where his water bottle waits. Dean watches as he tips his head back and gulps the water down, the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. Dean’s pretty sure there was a time when breathing came naturally but it seems he’s forgotten all about that now. He looks away and shifts a little.

“What’s up?”

There is an answer to that question that doesn’t start in a stutter and end in a scrambling retreat but Dean doesn’t find it.

“You know anything about a chupacabra?” he finally manages to ask the wall behind Sam’s back.

Sam pauses in wiping his face with a towel that has seen better days, looking up at Dean he says “Sure.”

Dean steals a quick glance at him and regrets it when Sam’s staring back at him with a quiet intensity that’s doing nothing to calm Dean down.

“I’ll be over in a minute, just need to grab a quick shower. I’ll bring beer and expertise”, Sam says with a smile that looks goofy on his tired face.

“Great”, croaks Dean.

“Sure, no problem”, Sam says and then just stands there.

Dean looks up at him, can’t stop his eyes from making a sweep across Sam’s bare chest, sort of getting stuck on his peaked nipples, the black ink of the tattoo above his heart, before making it up to Sam’s face. Sam is smiling a little bemused and raises an eyebrow. Dean shuffles and looks down again.

“So I’m gonna take a shower now, Dean”, Sam says gently and Dean looks up with eyes blown wide.

“Yeah, good, uh – good idea.”

“So unless you wanna join me…” Sam teases and Dean _knows_ he’s teasing but it doesn’t stop his face from going bright red.

“No! Uh, sorry, I’ll, um, I’ll leave you to it”, he mumbles and backs out.

Sam cackles and Dean grits his teeth, because damn. He closes the door when he leaves and sees Sam bend down to untie his shoes and Dean banishes any confusing thoughts about reaching out to touch that very firm-looking ass.

 

~*~

 

“Do I have to?” young Sam whines and Sam bites his lip to restrain his grin when Dean smacks him over the head.

“ _Yeah_ , you have to. I learned when I was ten so consider yourself lucky!”

They’re standing at the side of the road maybe three miles out of town. Young Sam and Dean are standing opposite each other in front of the Impala and John is busying himself with resetting the presets for the driver. Sam is leaning against the side-door, enjoying listening to the argument more than he should.

He remembers being in this discussion. He had just got home from school, munching on a sandwich and was planning to start early on his physics homework when Dad grunted at them to get in the car. Driving lessons, he’d said and Sam groaned.

“So you know how to drive. And Dad. And Sam. Why do I have to learn, too?” young Sam yells.

“Because you gotta!” roars Dean and while it’s true, he’s not the most eloquent in expressing why.

Sam remembers the frustration and can see the color rise in young Sam’s cheeks.

“There, we’re set to go. Sam, get in the car”, John says and Sam snaps his head at him before he catches himself and realizes he’s talking to young Sam.

Young Sam looks ready to snap, which Sam thinks is a bad idea, considering the amount of sleep John got last night, not a lot, and the patience he’s got for these kinds of things, again, not a lot, and decides to cut in.

“Sam”, he says and everybody’s eyes turn to him, perhaps surprised to see him there.

Sam huffs a little because they did ask him to come and sure, he hasn’t said a lot but he’s not exactly invisible either. John looks weary, so Sam quickly cuts to the chase.

“I know it sucks, but there’s gonna be times when neither your brother nor your dad is gonna be able to drive. Because they’re not there or because they’re injured, and you need to get them to a hospital.”

It’s low, aiming at young Sam’s worry that Sam’s all too familiar with. He spent endless nights lying awake when Dean and Dad were out hunting, wondering if he’d ever see them again, if the last time he saw them was really the _last time_. He’s just twisting that knife a little bit deeper when he reminds his younger self of this.

He sees the moment young Sam breaks because he lowers his gaze and scuffs his foot into the ground. Sam’s really glad he never realized how much like a little kid he looks when he does this. He might not have survived the embarrassment.

“’sides, Sammy, you can’t pick up chicks if you don’t know how to drive!” Dean says and grins at him with a dirty look in his eyes.

Sam snorts and his younger self punches Dean in the arm. Dean pushes young Sam so he almost falls over in his way over to the driver seat and Sam steadies him. Dean looks up at Sam and sort of freezes into place. Sam smiles reassuringly because even though his younger self is cussing violently he didn’t actually fall.

“Glad we settled that, now let’s get this show on the road”, John grunts and walks around to sit shotgun.

They all shuffle inside; Sam’s legs barely fit into the backseat but he folds himself in a way that’s wholly familiar. Dean squeezes in next to him, more awkwardly flinging around his limbs than Sam ever remember him doing, even through his gangly teenage years. At one point he almost gets an elbow in his crotch and he quickly grips Dean’s arm to steady him.

“Sorry. Sorry!” Dean yelps and tries to pat the would-be bruised member of Sam’s anatomy.

“Dean”, Sam grits out.

“Sorry! Oh God, sorry!” Dean removes his hand like it’s on fire and winces, his face blotchy red and Sam gets stuck looking at him. His little older brother flustered for almost touching another man’s dick. He tries to suppress a grin but judging from Dean’s mortified expression, he’s failing.

“It’s fine”, he tries to say but Dean’s staring resolutely out the window, hands clenched around his own knees.

“Everything all right back there?” John asks with a glance back at them and Sam nods with an eye roll.

“Fine, everything’s fine”, he says and John looks suspiciously at Dean and then turns back to young Sam.

“So make sure all mirrors are adjusted after you’ve set the seat like you want it. You need to be able to see everything around you, including what’s behind you”, John says and Sam’s hit with such a strong sense of nostalgia that he has to take a few deep breaths to steady himself.

He listens to John give his younger self his first lesson in driving. He remembers being terrified, thinking of his dad going twenty over the speed limit, thinking he would expect Sam to do the same. He was so afraid of botching it up, being a terrible driver when Dad and Dean were both so comfortable behind the wheel, so smooth you couldn’t even feel it when they changed gears or put the brakes on.

He briefly considers telling Sam that it’s going to be fine, he’ll learn really fast and that no one expects him to become an expert over night, but quickly decides against it. It’s weird enough that he’s sharing a name with young Sam. Exhibiting a deep understanding of his emotional state of being would be pushing it.

Soon enough they’re off. Driving slowly, stopping, crawling forward, making turns and gearing up and down. Sam looks out the window, trying to spot deer, being as inconspicuous as possible. Dad and Dean are enough of an audience.

Dean quickly gets over his bout of embarrassment and starts hassling young Sam to speed up, that he drives like a little girl, but Sam spots the proud smile he wears when young Sam executes a perfect U-turn. Sam wishes he had known back then, (now?), how proud his big brother is of him.

“Eyes on the road, Sam!” John roars and Sam snaps his eyes to the road before his mind even registers what’s happening.

John doesn’t notice but Dean cracks up and howls in laughter. “Brought up by your own drill-sergeant, Sam?” he asks and Sam forces his face to relax into a smile.

“You have no idea”, he mutters and turns back to the window-gazing.

 

~*~

 

John can still feel the weariness in his body when he slides into the barstool and gestures for the bartender. It’s been a rough hunt and they’ll be leaving in the morning, but just for tonight John has decided he’ll take the night off, hang back at the bar and catch up on some hunter gossip.

The bartender, John checks the nametag, Greg, pours him a whiskey. He’s rough around the edges but he’s wearing whole clothes and he doesn’t look broken. His eyes track the movement of the patrons and John doesn’t for a second doubt that he knows exactly who’s in his bar and where. It’s normal, it’s to be expected. He knocks back the glass and taps for a refill.

“Tough night?” Greg asks and John smiles.

“No worse than usual.”

Greg looks thoughtful but doesn’t comment and pours him a double. John watches as he tends to a few other customers, wipes down the bar with a towel and comes back to him. John notices the protective sigils cut into the wood, lets his finger trace it.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Wendigo a few miles up north”, John says and waits.

If he’s wrong he might be able to blame it on being misheard over the low buzz. Or he misspoke, he probably said Wynn Diego, an old friend, invited him up. He ends up not having to worry about it.

“Heard about that”, Greg says and throws the towel over his shoulder. “Was thinking one of you lot might show up. Don’t much do the scene anymore but the Johnsons’ son and friends are planning a camping trip and I figured I’d have to see to it myself if no one showed up.”

“Retired?” John asked, only just hiding his surprise.

“I’ve got a leg…” Greg says by way of explanation and gestures to his left side that John can’t see behind the counter but understands. Injury. There’s no honorable discharge in the hunting life, but getting injured in the fight against evil – John doesn’t know a better way to put it.

“I’m sorry to hear it”, John says and means it.

Greg nods and grins crookedly. “It’s the life.” He rearranges a couple of bottles, mixes up something frilly when a waitress gestures something complicated at him. When he’s finished, he turns back to John. “Did it give you any trouble?”

It’s not such an odd question but there’s a certain yearning quality to it and John thinks he understands. No one really gets out, even if they don’t hunt anymore. That itch to find out, to help, to be _involved_ in some way. It’s not a coincidence Greg’s tending a bar filled with hunters. John launches into the story, only just tipping the line towards exaggeration, but it’s for a good cause.

“We tracked it during the day, set up camp during the night. Caught it nice and clean in the mornin’,” he finishes and sweeps his beer.

“Flare gun?” Greg asks.

John smiles. “Flare gun”, he agrees.

“You got a partner then?” Greg says and sweeps his eyes over the bar. It’s a gesture, he would know if there was another unfamiliar face in the crowd.

John chews on his lip. He hasn’t caught up on the hunter gossip in a couple of weeks with the way they’ve been moving, and this could be a good opportunity to hear if anyone has heard something, good or bad, about Sam.

“Yeah, I’ve actually just started running ‘longside ‘nother hunter. Showed up a while back and it’s been working pretty good.”

“Yeah? They’ve got a name?” Greg asks, wiping down a few pint glasses.

“Sam Wesson”, John says and watches carefully.

Greg shrugs and keeps wiping. “Haven’t heard of him. He new?”

“Couldn’t be, he’s like an encyclopedia of monsters and moves like a cat.”

“Maybe he’s ex-military?”

“Doesn’t explain the library he’s got between his ears.”

“Could be special-ops”, Greg suggests, wiping a hand over his mouth to hide a grin. “For all we know the government has been huntin’ since there even was a government.”

“Doing a shit job of it,” John laughs and knocks his knuckles against the polished surface of the counter.

When the laughter fades and silence remains Greg pours him another beer. A thoughtful line creases his forehead.

“Sounds like you got lucky”, Greg offers, but there’s curiosity there, maybe a hint of suspicion.

“I guess so”, John says and raises his drink in thanks.

“I could ask around, if you wanted me to”, Greg says, casually, carefully. “I’ve got a good bunch of hunters moving through here and if Wesson’s been around, someone will have heard of ‘im.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

John drinks another glass but he feels unsettled and Dean and Sammy’s back at the motel, no more than a thin wall between them and a hunter no one has heard of. His boys can take care of themselves, he knows, but he’s not naïve. If Sam wants to hurt his kids, he can and he will.

John gets up and heads back.

 

~*~

 

When they stumble back through the door to the motel, Sam is half carrying John and Dean is limping behind them. The hunt was bad and though they got the bastard, they didn’t walk out of there without substantial harm. Young Sam jumps up from the couch and rushes over, his eyes huge in his gaunt face.

“What happened?” he asks and helps them put John down.

“Fucking ghouls”, Dean swears and stumbles over to the bed where he collapses.

“Sam, get the med kit”, Sam orders and starts cutting up the pant leg where the blood is still oozing out at a worrying rate. “I’ll need sterilizing shit, needle, thread and gauze”, he’s talking as he presses down on the wound, willing it to stop bleeding.

Young Sam scrambles to comply, all the while casting worrying looks at Dean who’s passed out of the bed. Sam considers reassuring him, but just then John groans and Sam’s attention is diverted.

“S’m? Whaz-?” John slurs and it’s only because Sam’s heard John speak drunk, on the verge of dying and still halfway asleep so many times that he can make out any sense at all.

“You’re bleeding heavily, the ghoul got you pretty bad but everyone’s okay, we’re back at the motel. You’re gonna be fine”, Sam explains.

“Ghoul?” John asks, or Sam assumes he asks because his lips aren’t really moving.

“We got it,” is Sam’s grim reply.

Young Sam crashes to a halt at their side and Sam looks over the equipment to check he’s got everything he needs. Young Sam looks at his dad’s pale face and takes long calming breaths, and Sam’s grateful that he’s not going to freak out now. He still needs him.

“You’re gonna have to stitch up the wound”, Sam says and young Sam’s head snaps around so fast Sam can hear it click. “Wash your hands, disinfect the needle and get back here.”

Young Sam nods, pale and afraid, and Sam wishes to whatever gods there are that he didn’t have to do this. But he remembers this night. This is the first time he sews his dad back together. His hands had shaken so much he’d barely been able to hold the needle still long enough to press through the skin. It’s when he first realizes his own role in the family and how vital it is. If he hadn’t been here, his dad would have died from blood loss and Dean would have choked on his own vomit and he would have been alone.

When young Sam kneels on the floor next to him, Sam shuffles back to leave room without moving his hands from the wound. He can’t let up the pressure or John will surely pass out from blood loss. As it is, he seems barely awake, his eyes small slits and he’s sweating bullets.

“Use the lighter to burn the needle, make sure you get the whole thing”, Sam says and watches closely as young Sam complies.

At least he’ll be able to guide him through this, Sam thinks. It’s more than he ever had.

“Is he gonna-?” young Sam starts but his voice doesn’t quite make it.

Sam understands but he’s not sure he should answer. He never knew and he doesn’t want to change too much, he isn’t sure what the consequences would be. He needs to know how to work under pressure, even believing his family might die. It’s not fair, it never has been. Watching how little his younger self looks, hands trembling, he wants to take the fear away. He knows John and Dean will both make it through tonight, but he hadn’t, not when this happened to him.

“Thread the needle”, he answers and young Sam looks like he’s going to pass out. “Breathe through it,” Sam advices and clenches his teeth when he takes note of John’s ashen face.

Tears streak young Sam’s face but he doesn’t wipe them away, just keeps focused on the task. Sam takes a quick look at the wound and the blood flow has slowed, so he carefully removes the cloth.

“Okay, find the ends of the wound and start there.”

“Wha-?” young Sam says, sounding dazed.

“You are going to sew your dad’s wound back together. Find a good spot to start.”

Young Sam stares helplessly at Sam, waiting for him to point, probably, and this is why Sam needs to have young Sam do this. He can’t hesitate. Not now, not when he’s alone, not when it matters. Not ever.

“Do it now.”

Young Sam gets to work.

It’s bloody and takes forever and young Sam is shaking like a leaf through the entire ordeal but he keeps going. When the wound’s all tied up, he wipes it down with alcohol and puts a clean band aid on it. Sam cringes several times during his workings but he doesn’t open his mouth. For a first time, it’s not bad.

Sam checks on John’s temperature, makes sure his airways are clear and then puts a blanket on him. Young Sam scatters off to Dean as soon as he’s done and there’s where Sam finds him when he turns around. Young Sam has his ear pressed to Dean’s chest, possibly listening to his breathing, but Sam knows it’s only part of the reason. He doesn’t bother calling him on it.

Dean has passed out, a combination of exhaustion and a slight concussion. Sam only wakes him up to put him properly in bed, then ties up his foot that was twisted. Young Sam curls up next to him and doesn’t budge, even when Sam says he’s fine and he should go back to his own bed to sleep.

Sam watches them for a little while. Most of his upbringing, the life on the road, the hours in the library and the endless number of motel rooms, they’re all a blur and he couldn’t pick one out from the rest at gunpoint. But this night, it’s forever etched into his memory.

He swallows against the lump in his throat when he looks down on young Sam, curled up protectively around his big brother. Feeling helpless because he wasn’t on the hunt, because he can’t protect him from all the evil things Dean insists on taking on by himself.

“I’ll keep an eye on them”, Sam says, voice sounding rougher than he intended.

Young Sam doesn’t answer but some tension leaks from his shoulders.

Good enough, thinks Sam and settles down on the kitchen chair. It’s going to be a long night.

 

~*~

 

They’ve wrapped up a case and Dad brought Dean along on the celebratory _thank god we’re alive_ drink at the local bar. He has been a little unhinged lately, Dean thinks and watches as Dad downs another shot. He’s glad Sam decided to come along, too. They’re seated in their own booth, a bit away.

“You did a good job back there”, Sam says to Dean.

It’s hot in the bar and Dean takes a gulp of his beer to hide the way his skin heats up. “You weren’t too shabby yourself”, Dean mutters without looking up.

Sam is stretched back in his seat, looking out across the crowd, not too heavy on a Thursday like this. He didn’t change when they got back, an easy salt-and-burn. Between four people to dig the grave and keep watch, they barely even broke a sweat, but on the trip back, when Sam sat next to Dean in the cramped space of the backseat, Dean could smell the labor off his body. In the bar it’s indistinguishable from the overwhelming odors coming from the other patrons, the alcohol, perfumes and sweat.

Dean watches Sam over the brim of his glass, subtly observing, but Sam isn’t paying attention anyway.

“Let me get the next round”, Sam says and rises.

“Shouldn’t you be reprimanding me for drinking while underage?” Dean asks and want to bite off his tongue the second the words leave his mouth.

Sam pauses, looks back at Dean as if he’s seeing him clearly for the first time. Surprise is etched onto his forehead but then he smiles and shakes his head.

“You’ve been drinking since before I showed up. I’ll take no responsibility for your future alcoholism”, he says and grins.

“Hey!” Dean shouts and only quiets down when Sam plants a hand the size of a platter on his shoulder and leans in close enough to make Dean shudder.

“Besides, if you’re old enough to kill, you’re old enough to drink.”

Dean is so glad Sam walks away for a little then, because he needs to take deep, calming breaths. He follows Sam with his eyes as he walks away, letting his gaze travel over the broad shoulders, down narrow hips and a tighter ass than should be legal.

He tells himself it’s normal for a young man to admire an older, more skilled person in their profession, but something clenching in his gut belays the thought.

Forcefully shifting his eyes away, he searches out Dad in the small crowd.

He finds him a little way down by the darts, leaning in against a woman, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. She’s pretty, his age but without all the pre-aging stress-lines and tight expression, with long blonde hair and an open smile. Her hand is planted on Dad’s chest and Dean veers between disgust and pride.

He looks up when Sam gets back and plants one pint in front of Dean and one before himself before taking a seat.

“What you looking at so funny?” Sam asks and twists around on the couch.

As Sam’s searching look lands on Dad, his face goes through a series of strange expressions before he carefully masks his thoughts. Dean takes a sip of his beer, waiting for the verdict, feeling odd about Sam reacting so strongly. Surely he must know that Dad’s a man still in his prime and it was years since he lost Mom. It’s not that strange to be meeting girls in bars, right?

“This is so bizarre”, Sam mutters into his beer and guzzles half the glass in one go.

Dean follows the movement of his Adam’s apple. Sam shaves when they have to use alibis such as federal agents, Marshalls or sheriffs, but otherwise there is usually a light shadow going all the way down to his throat. His own face, still very smooth despite vigorous attempts at growing a beard, would probably scratch and turn red if he pressed his cheek there. He halts the thought before it’s taken to its conclusion and with a silent _what the fuck_ drinks deeply. He wipes a hand over his mouth when Sam looks back at him.

“S-sorry”, he says, not really sure why but Sam takes it as a question, so it’s fine.

“Look, I don’t wanna be a bummer but I think I’m just gonna head back”, he says, looking so apologetic. “You gonna be okay here?” he asks, like an add-on he just thought of.

Dean glances back at Dad who’s progressed to sharing the woman’s drink with a hand resting on her waist. Yeah, he doesn’t need to see this.

“I think I’ll just go with you.”

They leave their drinks, grab their jackets and head out. When Dean passes him, he gestures to Dad who nods and turns back to the woman.

Outside the sun is just setting but the air is still too hot. Sam seems to share his sentiment because the shirt he’s valiantly kept on in the bar finally slips down his arms and is tied around his waist. Dean tries not to stare at the pure muscle bulging out from his arms. Sam notices anyway and smirks, just a little.

“Seriously, how much do you work out to get those?” Dean asks because he has to say _something_.

Sam laughs freely and Dean suffers through the hand ruffling his cropped hair.

“You’ll build when you get older, Dean. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s not a very satisfactory answer but Dean wasn’t really asking anyway. The walk back to the motel is short and uneventful and Dean feels like he should say something before they split up to head into their separate rooms. The night is young and Sammy will probably still be awake and Dean’s usually never back this early.

If Sam was a girl, Dean would know exactly what to say. Entice her with a bit of danger, tell her to embrace the night, rebel against the strict rules of her life. He can’t say any of that to Sam, though. He’s plenty dangerous and has practically the definition of rebellious life.

“Thanks for tonight”, Sam says to him when they get to their respective doors.

It makes Dean feel grown-up, like Sam’s really talking to him like an adult. It looks like Sam wants to say something more so Dean stays quiet, but nothing else is forthcoming. The silences stretches between them. Maybe it should be awkward but it doesn’t feel like that.

“Just holler if you need something”, Sam finally settles on, pointing to his room right next to theirs.

“Sure thing”, Dean says.

 

Inside, Sammy’s watching television. Some boring documentary about the European monarchy in the 14th century or some shit. Dean falls into the couch beside him anyway, suddenly too tired to fight. Sammy looks at him oddly but doesn’t say anything.

They sit like that until the show ends, and then through a boring 90s thriller after that, and it feels nice. It has been a while since he hung out with just Sammy, Dean admits guiltily to himself. Too bedazzled with Sam and all the cool stuff he has been showing him.

It’s well past midnight and they should be heading to bed when the lock on the door rattles. Both Sammy and Dean look at it apprehensively. It’s most likely Dad, but on the off chance it’s not, they should be ready. Sammy grabs his sawed-off shotgun and Dean hoists his .45 caliber at a high ready. They approach the door on light feet.

“Will you boys get off your asses and open the door?” Dad bellows through the door and both Sammy and Dean draw a deep breath in relief.

They put away their guns and Dean opens the door. Dad is drunk, color high on his cheeks and a nauseating whisky breath. He almost tackles Dean to the floor when he steps inside on unsteady legs, misjudges the distance to the hall stand and takes a nasty turn before collapsing on the couch with a grunt.

“Dad?” Dean asks, exchanging a worried glance with his brother. “You okay?”

Normally he would leave him alone, let him sleep it off and then never mention it again, but this is the most drunk he’s seen their dad in-, he can’t even remember.

“Fine”, Dad mutters into the cushion. “Would’ya ge’ me ‘nother beer?” he asks, barely bothering to turn his face out to greet the room.

“I think you’ve had enough”, Dean says and goes to grab him a glass of water and an aspirin.

“Wha’d you jus’ say, boy?” Dad asks and struggles to get up on his elbows, fighting against gravity and the soft material of the couch. He finally gets to his feet and turns to Dean, looming over him.

“Nothing”, Dean mutters and hands him the glass without looking at him.

“Thought so”, Dad grunts sitting up, and downs the glass in one go, ignoring the pill Dean stretches out. “Now a beer.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking this much”, Sammy says bravely, stupidly, and Dean wants to smack him over the head because now is _not_ the time to have this argument. Not that it ever is, but now is extra bad.

“What the hell do you know about drinking?” Dad yells at him.

Dean’s not sure if he his grip is loose and the glass slips out of his hand when he waves around his arm, or if he actually meant to throw it into the wall behind Sammy.

In the end it doesn’t matter.

It shatters only inches away from Sammy’s face and the world slows down.

Sammy doesn’t say anything but his lip quivers even as his eyes are burning. Dean knows, just knows, Sammy’s going to argue, and he _can’t_ , not when Dad’s like this. But Dean’s feet are rooted to the floor. He watches like a train wreck when Dad precariously gets to his feet and approaches Sammy, sees him raise his hand-

Dean didn’t hear the door open but all of a sudden Sam is standing right there, face void of any emotion. It is the most terrifying Dean has ever seen him.

“You’ll want to step away from him now, John” he says with an undercurrent of withheld rage.

Dean’s chest swells with relief at seeing him. When he looks back at Dad he’s grimacing, turning slowly around to Sam, his hand still hovering in air.

“Wha’zzat?” he slurs, body language going from aggressive but uncoordinated to defensive, which is much more dangerous on a hunter.

Sam must know this, because he turns the palms of his hands up in a universal pacifying gesture, attention kept steadily on Dad. He walks closer in an as unthreatening manner as is possible for a man Sam’s size.

“You’re drunk and you’re not thinking straight. You should go to bed and sleep it off”, Sam says calmly, sending a split second’s glance in Dean’s direction. Dean doesn’t need another sign.

His feet unlock from the floor and he moves carefully over to Sammy, takes him by the arm and guides him out the door. He can feel the heavy weight of Dad’s gaze as they make their way out. Sam doesn’t look away from Dad.

The door slides shut behind them and only then does the conversation start back up. Dean can only vaguely make out the low voices through it. Sammy is shaking by his side so he takes him into his arms and hugs him close.

“I’m sorry”, Sammy whines into his throat and Dean’s heart constrict.

“’s not your fault”, he whispers, all but a breath into Sammy’s silky hair. “Never your fault.”

They stand out there for maybe ten minutes, the cold air seeping into their clothes. Dean is thankful they didn’t have time to change into their pajamas yet. From the room, the voices grow faint and then there is nothing for a long while, but Dean didn’t hear any bangs or knocks, so he’s not worried. Much.

He still draws a breath in relief when Sam steps out. He takes one look at them, Sammy finally calming in Dean’s arms, and something goes very soft in his eyes.

“Come on”, he says and ushers them inside his own room.

There is only one bed, but Sam guides them there without hesitation. Sammy curls up next to Dean like he hasn’t done in years and it feels good, to have him there, close.

Dean looks up at Sam, still standing, and whispers: “What did you do?”

Sam meets his gaze for a long second before he answers, the moment full of things he won’t say.

“I just put him to bed, Dean. Don’t worry about it.”

Dean closes his eyes and wraps his arm tighter around Sammy and tries to sleep. He listens to Sam’s breathing from the floor and falls into a deep slumber still thinking about that horrible moment of helplessness. He swears to himself he will protect Sammy from here on out. Whatever it takes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's been a week and my life is not quite as crazy so this might actually work out! A little longer chapter this time, hopefully it makes up for my sporadic posting. I hope you enjoy and please leave a comment if you really like it, it means more to me than I can express.

It’s that weird time between late night and early morning and they’ve just got back from a gory case of killing a chupacabra. The moonlight slipping in from the bedroom window is cold and leaves most of the room dark with ghostly shadows, but under a silent agreement no one turns on the light.

Dean strips off his wet shirt and throws it on the floor where it lands with a slick thud. Sammy slinks into the bathroom for a cold wash-up in the sink. Dean checks the salt lines.

While he’s still standing with his back to the door someone knocks gently on it and slips inside. Dean turns around and sees Sam there, scanning the room before focusing on Dean.

“Hey, Dean. I just wanted to say good work tonight, and, you know, make sure you wash everything off,” Sam says and nods to Sammy when he plunks back out from the bathroom, hair wet and small frame shivering.

“Sure, thanks,” Dean says and smothers the urge to cover up his chest.

“Why, what’s up with the slime?” Sammy asks, ever curious as he digs out a towel that has seen better days. He sniffs it with a grimace and shrugs before wrapping his head in a turban. Dean sniggers.

 “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. Just sometimes this residue has some awkward side effects and it’s better to be safe than sorry,” Sam grimaces but it’s mostly self-indulgent as he combs his hair back, which is crusty from the drying goo.

“No problem,” Dean reassures him and Sam smiles at him, all sweet and shit and Dean sort of gets stuck there, hands awkwardly behind his back in a haphazard at ease position.

Sam remains still, too. His smiles fades away and they’re left just standing there. The air is fizzling with _something_ , a potential energy that leaves Dean’s skin prickling.

Finally it’s Sammy breaking the stand-off. He huffs exaggeratedly and throws his discarded pants at Dean. It’s drenched in the off-smelling ooze and Dean drops them in sheer disgust.

“EW!” he exclaims and wipes his hands on his jeans.

Sam lets out a large gust of breath and laughs goodheartedly at his expense.

“Bathroom’s free,” Sammy says and then stands there until Dean moves. He’s not sure but he thinks he hears Sammy mumble “like little kids” when he passes him.

“All right, I’ll leave you to it. John said to tell you we’ll move out at noon so you boys can get some sleep. I suggest you use it,” Sam says and then he leaves with one last look in Dean’s direction.

Dean tries to not read anything into it and marches into the bathroom, swapping Sammy over the head as he passes him.

He washes up and the water is so cold what with the motel using heating tanks from the roof and it’s cooled off since long by now. His teeth are chattering when he gets back out.

Sammy has already slinked into bed and Dean makes the hard choice and sinks down in his own, very cold and very empty bed. Exhaustion is pulling on his every nerve-ending and when he closes his eyes it feels like blocks of cement lock the lids in place.

Sammy’s voice when it comes sounds just as tired but there is glee seeping in and Dean hates him just a little bit.

“You like him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters and banishes the fluttering in his chest.

Sammy sighs like Dean’s idiocy is weighing on his shoulders.

“Saa~am,” he says, drawing out the name so it sounds like it has three vowels.

A smile tugs on Dean’s face and he mercilessly cuts it away.

“Shut your stupid face.”

“You totally do,” Sammy giggles and Dean defies all laws of physics and turns over despite every muscle in his body protesting.

“You don’t know shit,” he says and tries to inflect some of their dad’s sternness but Sammy just grins wider.

“Dean and Sam, sitting in a tree~,” he mock-sings and Dean groans, burying his face in his pillow and then almost forgets to turn back up again.

“He’s a guy, Sammy. I think he’s cool and everything, but I don’t _like_ like him. That’s just-,” he explains and then doesn’t really know how to finish, just leaves a vaguely nauseous feeling in his gut.

Sammy stops grinning. He shifts a bit under his sheets, chewing on his lip and Dean wants to wrap him up against his body, tuck his head under his chin and keep him close. Sammy doesn’t say anything for a long moment and Dean almost drifts off. He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of motel room, gun oil, unwashed laundry and their combined sweat – disgusting and comfortingly home.

“It’s not wrong, you know,” he whispers and Dean has to strain his ears to pick the sound up.

“Hmm?”

“For two guys to be in love, it’s not wrong.”

Dean is sure he has an answer for that. It’s probably a combination of mockery, vitriol and sarcasm but right now he can’t remember why it’s so important. He hums a bit more, thinks he’ll tell him tomorrow, whatever it was, and then sighs deeply. He dreams of slimy scales and skeleton goats.

 

~*~

 

It’s just a normal hunt; a poltergeist they’re taking out with the usual hex bags in each corner of the house, when the Wilkersons’ son lets slip something that changes everything.

“I don’t want to move again,” the kid, Carl, is saying, pleadingly to his mom who’s standing resolute. “I’ve just settled in, I’ve finally got friends!”

“It’s not safe here,” Mrs. Wilkerson says with a resolute expression.

Sam wonders if he should intervene, tell them it will be safer now than it ever was, but he hangs back instead, figuring it’s not his business to tell them how to live their lives. It’s a normal reaction to run from bad experiences, to not want to stay in a place haunted by evil.

“You don’t think it’s safe anywhere, even back in Maine. Just because dad died-,” Carl says, but he seems to realize he’s said too much when Mrs. Wilkerson’s lips turn thin and white.

Sam watches silently as Carl bows his head and slips up to his room, his body exhibiting defeat in every muscle. He kind of wants to cheer him on, say he should stand for his beliefs, but he knows it’s not his fight. He also remembers he lived to regret his rebellion when Dad died unexpectedly. He’s fully prepared to let the subject rest, when:

“What happened to your husband?” John asks, because it’s his business to ask these things.

Mrs. Wilkerson looks uncomfortable with anger lingering in the set of her mouth but finally her shoulders slump and she says, “He died in a fire when Carl was still a baby. It’s like bad luck won’t leave this family alone.”

A cold tendril runs down Sam’s back. Surely not…

Dean and young Sam are waiting in the car, already packed up to go back to the motel, job finished. Sam wonders if this happened often, that John stayed behind to ask questions he didn’t want them to hear.

“What do you mean?” John asks and after all this time Sam is still amazed at the way John can make himself so trustworthy, make people tell him the things they don’t share even with their best friends.

“It’s just one thing after another, you know? Kids going missing, cults starting up, suspicious drownings…, Can you believe the things people do? And now this, a haunted house… If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were cursed.”

Sam knows enough about witchcraft and hoodoo to know that’s not how curses work, but if Carl is one of Azazel’s chosen children, it’s entirely possible the demon set it up. The thing is, Sam learnt the name of all the people Azazel set up to fight for the prize, every child with psychic powers, and Carl Wilkerson was not one of them. It’s truly bizarre but it must be a coincidence.

As John keeps on asking questions, though, and Mrs. Wilkerson explains the six months anniversary thing, how he died in the nursery, it seems more and more unlikely. Maybe Sam missed one. Maybe Carl never made it to 23 and that’s why Sam never knew of him. Maybe Ash never checked for fathers dying in the nursery.

Whatever the case, it takes no more convincing for John. He’s found a trail and, like a blood hound, he will follow it to the very end. Sam clenches his fists at his sides. How early had his dad found out about the demon?

He always knew that John had been keeping quiet about his findings about the yellow-eyed demon, perhaps in a belated attempt to protect Sam’s innocence, perhaps because he was afraid telling Sam would trigger whatever evil would supposedly develop in him. But Sam had figured when Dean told him about Dad’s last words, that he must have known for a while. He hadn’t known it was as early as this, though, before Stanford, before anything, really.

It’s a long time before John decides he has heard enough. Or he just realizes that even charm and the supposed authority of the police isn’t enough to keep on Mrs. Wilkerson’s good side forever and if he wants to keep the door open, he had better back off now.

“That’s some pretty intense questions for some random fire that happened over a decade ago,” Sam comments as they walk over to the car.

John looks at him, considering, clearly weighting the risks of sharing what this is and Sam realizes with a jolt that he’s far from the inner circle of trust that he has always been an automatic part of through blood before. John doesn’t trust him fully yet, might never do. Sam’s an outsider to him. It’s jarring but he makes no show to question it.

He slinks into the shotgun seat without another word, listens to young Sam ask what took them so long. Dean’s watching him silently, sensing the tension. Sam has nothing to say to him so he looks out the window on the drive back.

He knows John will be frantically looking through every paper article, talk to every witness and consult all hunters that were ever close to Maine or the Wilkersons in 1983. He’ll slowly clue in on the darkness, the blood and the demon’s plan, and everything will happen as it did. It’s making Sam’s head hurt.

It surprises him not at all when John declares, a few minutes from the motel, “We’re packing up and leaving tonight.”

“Where’re we going?” young Sam asks immediately.

He’ll be pulled out of school, again, and Sam wants to shake his dad, make him understand what he’s taking from his sons. It’s no easier the second time around, when he’s not even the one affected. It’ll never be easier.

“Maine,” John says and though young Sam and Dean don’t know the details, they can distinguish a note in their dad’s voice, just as Sam can, that means this is about Mom.

Sam has made peace with the fact that he’ll be a hunter, live a hunter’s lifestyle for the rest of his life. He’ll fight alongside his brother and they’ll try to make the world a better place, or even just keep the world spinning when they or someone else screw it up. Seeing this again, though, seeing Dad losing sight of everything in the pursuit of revenge for a wife that grew perfect only after death, vengeance for a woman long since gone when he has two boys who need him now…

For the first time Sam realizes that even though the spell didn’t work the way he thought, he still has an opportunity here. He didn’t land in 2015 in time to stop Dean from killing Death and releasing the Darkness, or in 2014 in time to stop them from sewing up Abaddon or Dean from taking on the Mark of Cain. He landed in 1997, in time to change _everything_.

He lets the enormity of the thought rest in his mind for a few seconds. He knows the intricacy of time travel, how angels transporting them back let them witness things, try to change things, and never once succeed. Thinking back, though, he can’t help but think that’s part of the angel design. Even with Cas on their side, he was still controlled by Heaven for years afterwards. And didn’t Balthazar show that they could actually change things now? After the rule book was thrown out?

Sam got here by his own means. By secret spellwork harbored by the Men of Letters. Nothing divine or demonic associated with it. Nothing to influence, good or bad, in the core. Just earthbound magic. His own actions will have an actual effect. His choices will matter. Free will at its very foundation.

 

~*~

 

“Sam Wesson.”

Sam pauses where he stands. That’s John’s voice, but he’s clearly not talking _to_ Sam, so he must be talking _about_ him. With a paranoia like John’s, it’s no surprise John will be asking around, and Sam wants to kick himself for not realizing sooner.

“Nothing? You sure?” John asks and Sam can hear the frustration. “It’s like the man just sprung fully grown one day. He must come from _somewhere_!” There is a brief silence where John paces the floor, Sam listens to the soft thuds on wooden boards. “He doesn’t sound foreign… Yeah, I hear ya. Sure thing. Well, you call me if you hear anything. Yeah, definitely. Thanks, man.”

Sam quickly backs away. He can’t be caught listening in on that conversation, John will be too on edge and the consequent fallout is more likely to have him send Sam away than anything.

When he gets to his car, he slips into the driver’s seat and pulls out the new cellphone he bought. It’s huge and Sam can’t decide between laughing and groaning at it whenever he has to use it. The buttons are soft and make a small beeping sound when he presses in the number.

“Singer Salvage.”

Bobby’s voice is like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t expected the shock he felt to hear his gruff voice after all this time.

Sam would choose a number that’s a direct line to Bobby’s work. Any number really, including those to his FBI, US Marshall or his hunter hotline, would be better than his work number that connects him to the Robert Singer, owner of a salvage yard. Sam does not, however, remember every number Bobby’s had since 13 years back and they’ve changed multiple times over that time. This is the only one that hasn’t.

“Hi Bobby, my name’s Sam and I need to talk to you.”

“All right, hello Sam,” Bobby says, weariness instantly entering his voice. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m a hunter, like you’ve probably gathered. I’ve been tagging along with John Winchester and his boys for the past couple of weeks-“

“So you’re the rumored Sam Wesson. John’s been asking around about you.”

Sam’s heart sinks; if he’s too late, this will be pointless. He had betted on John’s strained relationship with Bobby but maybe the timeline isn’t right and they’re still on good terms. “He talked to you?”

“Not so much, but word gets around,” Bobby deflects.

It’s weird hearing about gossiping hunters. Ever since Dad died and Sam and Dean started understanding that vast network the hunters actually have, they’ve been shunned by the community, or too paranoid to interact with it. He’s been the psychic boy, the hunter who mixed with a demon and the guy who started the apocalypse. He’s not sure what the latest diagnosis is, but he’s sure hanging around with angels and releasing the Darkness can’t have helped.

“I need you to vouch for me,” Sam said, cutting to the chase. “When John calls you. Or any other hunter looking for intel.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” Bobby said, not unexpectedly.

“This will sound nuts but you’ve seen enough crap to believe it’s possible and that’s more than can be said for most hunters,” Sam says and Bobby grunts, neither negating or affirming that statement. “I’m from the future and I’m here to help.”

He waits a beat for that to sink in.

“Bullshit.”

“Bobby-,” Sam starts.

“Help with what?” Bobby cuts in, because he may be a cynical bastard but he’s always been curious.

“Stop the apocalypse,” Sam says, venturing for the easiest Big Bad to grasp. He doesn’t feel like explaining angels, Leviathan, Knights of Hell or the Mark of Cain just then. It will all be too much to swallow in one go. “It’s coming and I know how and when and why and I’m not gonna let it happen again.”

Bobby is quiet for a long time and Sam starts to wonder if the crappy line gave up but when he looks down on the phone, they’re still connected.

“Bobby?”

“If it’s the apocalypse, then how’re you still alive?”

“We averted it,” Sam says promptly. “Sort of.”

“Then why-?”

“Because a lot of people died and the consequences led to even crappier things. I’m gonna stop it before it happens.”

“Let’s say, for a minute, that I believe that,” Bobby says, his gruff voice, even full of sarcasm and venom, is so comforting that Sam almost forgets he’s talking to a Bobby from over a decade ago. A Bobby who has never met an angel, never had to detox Sam from demon blood, a Bobby who doesn’t know about time travel or purgatory. It’s nostalgic and horrible all at once. “Why the hell are you hanging around with John Winchester?”

Sam almost laughs, because why his family, indeed. “They’re at the center of it,” he settles for.

“Leaving that bullshit answer alone,” Bobby mutters, “just where do you fit into all of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you from a distant future and this is all butterfly-effect for you or is there another you running around here?”

Sam debates the answer. He could tell Bobby, every bone in his body is screaming at him to tell this secret to someone, and who better than Bobby? But another part, the one that’s been screwed over one too many times, the one who didn’t manage to save his mom and dad even when they were _right there_ , says it’s better if he changes things in as small ways as possible.

“I can’t-“, he begins but Bobby cuts him off.

“No, you listen to me, boy. You’re calling me, saying I need to vouch for you and you sound pretty damn sure I’ll do it, so obviously you know me somehow,” Bobby says, anger boiling just under the surface, “and I need to know because if you’re close to those boys then I gotta be sure, I mean real sure, that you’re not gonna hurt them. They’re like family to me.”

Sam should have seen that coming. Here he has been thinking so much about his Bobby, about missing him and how much he meant, where here the real Bobby is, the one father figure that has been constant even when Dad screwed up. Of course he’s not going to take his word for it.

“Yeah, of course. Of course, Bobby,” Sam says and that seems to settle Bobby some because he quiets down to listen. “My name’s not Sam Wesson-“

“No, really?” Bobby says, sarcasm dribbling through the line so thick Sam can almost taste it. He bites back a smile.

“It’s Sam Winchester.”

Total silence. Sam listens to his heart beat a mile a minute, waiting for Bobby to decide if he’s going to hang up the phone or give Sam a chance to prove it’s him.

“Prove it.”

“Uh…,” Sam scrambles to think of something, and the words come, with a rush of despair. “You’re a fan or Tori Spelling-“

“Someone could have told you that”.

“How about the free pedicure you got at the Mall of America, the one that changed your life?”

“I’ve never had a pedicure in my life!” Bobby says, indignation and anger mixing up with his suspicion and Sam doesn’t know what to say.

“Bobby, listen to me. You’ve been like a father to me my whole life, more than my dad ever was. You let me sit read through your books during summer breaks when Dean was working on a car in your garage. You’re the one who taught me Latin! You helped me apply for my GEDs and told Dad off when you were supposed to take us out for target practice and let us stay in to watch the Super Bowl instead!”

“For all I know that could be public knowledge in the future!”

At the end of his rope, Sam finally settles for, “Your first girlfriend turned out to be a dude.”

There is a lot of spluttering to get through after that and Sam politely shuts up while Bobby gets it out of his system. Eventually, his protests die down.

“I’ll be damned,” Bobby whispers. “Little Sammy?”

“It’s Sam,” Sam says immediately because boy is he sick of hearing that nickname so much again.

Bobby laughs, a bit hoarse. “Of course it is. How old are you, anyways?”

“Thirty-three,” Sam says, deciding not to mention his whacked and chopped age.

“So you make it out alive,” Bobby says and he sounds so happy Sam can’t bear to shatter the illusion, but there really isn’t much choice if he’s going to get Bobby’s full support in this.

“I-, I don’t,” Sam forces out between clenched teeth.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“That’s why I need you to vouch for me, so John can trust me completely. I need to change things so all the horrible crap that’s gonna happen don’t happen.”

“Sam, you know I love you like a son, but messing with time… it’s not-“

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Bobby asks, and there is that pleading voice of reason that’s always set the bar for sane in all the Winchester crazy.

“Because it’s better than the alternative”.

“You don’t know what you’re messing with. I’m not a man of faith but there’s a natural order to things that you shouldn’t meddle in.”

“I’ve meddled with Faith, the sister, with angels of the Lord, with pagan gods, the King of Hell, Lucifer and Death himself. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’m messing with.”

He listens to Bobby breathe on the other end. “Damn you Winchesters.”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Bobby asks, and Sam’s not sure if it’s a sign of how early ages it is or just how unflappable Bobby is, but the fact that he doesn’t object anymore makes his gut twist.

“No, but I gotta try,” Sam says in a low voice.

“Fine,” Bobby says in great concession. “I’ll help you. Of course I’ll help. God help us all.”

Sam doesn’t mention that God has left the building. Too much of his own life has built around the foundation of his continued belief, and if Bobby ever lets slip that his future self declared God out of the picture, he doesn’t know what it would mean, but he’s sure he doesn’t want to know.

“Thank you, Bobby. I appreciate it.”

“Sure, anything for you boys.” Bobby waits a second, then, “so, a pedicure, really?”

 

~*~

 

Dean’s just coming back with the shopping, heavy bags balancing precariously in his arms as he struggles to unlock the motel door, when he sees Sam step out of his room down the exterior corridor. He pauses in his fumbling and starts to open his mouth, greeting already on his tongue when he notices Sam’s not alone. Coming up behind him is a beautiful woman with dark curly hair. She stands close to him, waits for him.

Unwilling to interrupt if Sam is taking her out, Dean hangs back. He waits for Sam to greet her, make their relationship clear, either by a smile and a nod, a hug, even a kiss. Anything. Sam pauses briefly before turning around to her. He doesn’t look happy and that makes Dean worried. He stands very still, willing them to not notice him. It would only take a quick glance in his direction, but luckily both of them seem preoccupied.

Sam’s face is set in grim lines and he says something to the woman in too low a voice for Dean to hear. The woman raises an eyebrow and shrugs. Sam locks his room up while the woman waits. She says something when Sam turns around and Sam shakes his head. They move away, taking the south facing exit when normally you’d take the north since it leads straight to the parking lot and the reception.

Dean swiftly unlocks the door, puts the bags just inside and steps right back out again. He keeps his feet light on the ground, trying to muffle the sounds of his boots hitting the stone tiled floor. When he reaches the corner he pauses and bend his head forward, checking around the bend but they are already gone. Dean searches the area around the motel, even goes as far as to circle the surrounding buildings but there is no sign of them. Bunching his shoulders and pressing his hands in his pockets he returns to the motel, feeling like a failure.

It’s only when he gets back to his room that he notices Sam leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and a foot pressed against the panel behind him. His pose is relaxed but Dean can practically feel the disapproval radiating from him, and Dean instinctively bows his head.

“Why don’t we talk in my room?” Sam says and it’s not a suggestion.

Dean nods and follows Sam back to his room. He has only been here a couple of times, usually in the mornings when he’s coming to collect Sam for the research, or the evenings when John tells him to go grab Sam for game night and a beer. He doesn’t think he’s actually been inside. He looks around curiously, but if he was expecting to find any secrets about Sam hidden in his kitchen cabinets, he’s disappointed. The room looks just like theirs. Beige, cleaned but with a persistent weird smell that no amount of detergent can get out. If there are secrets in here, they’re hidden in Sam’s duffel and Dean’s not about to go rooting around there.

“Have a seat, Dean,” Sam says and gestures at his bed.

He only ever takes the single and those don’t come with a couch or even an armchair. There’s a small fridge and a table for one, but Sam’s already sitting down on the kitchen chair, so Dean sits on the bed. It’s made, just like his own, military style. You can flip a coin on this bedding, he thinks as he sinks down, ruining the stretched bedspread.

“So you spied on me today,” Sam begins and Dean snaps his eyes up to Sam’s.

Well, yes, in a sense of the word, Dean supposes that is true. He didn’t actually see anything, though, and ain’t that a kicker. Going by Sam’s frown Dean’s pretty sure he has ruined whatever trust Sam previously put in him and he didn’t even find anything out. He can taste bile in his throat.

“I saw you with a girl,” Dean admits. “Your girlfriend?” he tries but they both know he’s fibbing.

Hunters don’t have girlfriends unless they’re hunters, too, and Sam’s been on the road with them long enough for Dean to know if there was a girl. Sam doesn’t even smile, though. Only keeps on looking at Dean, waiting for him to crack.

“Thought so,” Dean says eventually. “Who was she? Friend? Another hunter?”

Sam’s lips turn thin and Dean’s voice dies. He squirms on the bed. This is really unfair. Only his dad has this effect on him. How does Sam know to push his buttons like this? Sam’s voice surprises him when it comes. Low, serious.

“She’s not a friend and if you ever see her, you run the other way. Hear me? Don’t interact with her.”

Dean’s stomach ties itself into knots. This isn’t what he expected. Maybe he should have, given Sam’s reactions, both to the woman and to finding out Dean tried to spy on him.

“She’s dangerous,” Dean states and Sam doesn’t refute him. “Are you in trouble? I can tell Dad and he can help. We can hunt whatever she is,” Dean offers, but grows quiet when Sam smiles humorlessly.

“You can’t hunt her,” Sam says and Dean is definitely not imagining the bitterness tracing his words. “Besides, she’s only dangerous if you’re already dead.”

That… doesn’t make any sense. Sam appears to notice his confusion because he shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s none of your concern.”

Dean doesn’t agree with that. “Of course it is! You just told me to run if I ever see her. That sounds like trouble and trouble is kind of what our family does, so tell me so we can help you!”

Dean’s proud his voice doesn’t betray him, the churning fear he experiences in his gut. Sam has always appeared fearless and though he’s not acting afraid right now, Dean can see the worry lines around his eyes and his tense shoulders. Something is going on.

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice is infinitely kind but also unendingly patient. There won’t be any give here. He feels his shoulders slump.

“Would you even tell me if you were in trouble?” Dean asks, feeling helpless.

Sam doesn’t answer and Dean nods, rising to his feet. They’re heavy like they’ve turned to lead. He walks slowly to the door and only pauses when Sam’s voice calls him back.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Sam promises.

Dean swallows and leaves.

 

~*~

 

It’s hot in the bar; the collective body heat of a busy place combined with the lingering heat from the day is enough to make John sweat. The three glasses of whiskey and two dark brews aren’t helping, he imagines and pulls at his shirt collar. Sam isn’t doing much better. He has taken off his jacket and is in the process of rolling up his sleeves.

He’s a built man. It still hits him every once in a while, but Sam must have spent a considerate amount of time building that body. He makes use of it, too, with his sleek moves and powerful hits. A hunter, born and bred, Sam said. Still, it sometimes nags at in the back of John’s mind, how familiar he seems.

“You’d think they’d invest in proper air-conditioning in a place where the anomaly is a cold day,” Sam says and takes a swig of his beer.

“It’ll cool down in a few hours and they don’t usually have this much business this early,” John grins but he feels a trickle of sweat run down his back.

“How d’you figure?”

“Talked to the bartender. It’s because of the killings, people like gathering up in times of worry. This crowd will be gone in a few weeks, tops, now that we’ve taken care of the sonofabitch.”

Sam hums thoughtfully and scans the patrons. He’s always watching. It’s a good trait, useful, but it sometimes sets John’s teeth on edge. John’s weary, he’s a hunter and before that he was a marine, he knows all that comes with PTSD and obsessive behavior. Sam, though… John knows without saying that the guy has been through some shit that he isn’t talking about. Normally, John wouldn’t put his nose where it isn’t wanted, but they’ve been traveling together for a while now, and almost against his will, he’s come to rely on Sam. It’s time for some straight business.

“So, Sam,” John says, calmly, relaxed, inviting. And yet as soon as the words leave his lips, Sam snaps to attention, like he’s heard those words many times before and knows what comes next. Just another thing to add to the growing list of things that don’t make sense about Sam. “You worked alone, you know, before you joined us?”

Sam clears his throat and bares his teeth in a considering manner, his jaw working. “No. No, I, uh, I used to hunt with my partner.”

John nods even as he files this away. “They had a name?”

Sam draws a deep breath, clearly bracing for something. “You know, I really don’t want to talk about it. He’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry,” John offers. “It’s a tough life, this. You lose people you care about, people you trust, but you never really learn to, heh, let them go,” he says with a humorless smile and thinks of the countless people he has seen die. The people who were close enough to touch and still out of reach for him to save.

“Yeah, no, that’s…” Sam peels at the label of his bottle, staring off into the dark room. “He’s the only one I had.”

“I lost my wife, Mary,” John says, still not sure if it’s a good idea to share this. There are strangers who know his story, but telling it to someone, like this, face to face, is different. Even with Bobby’s heartfelt reassurance, there is something to be said about caution in this life.

Sam twitches and looks at him sharply with eyes that seem to know too much. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t ask, even though it must be obvious.

“Love of my life,” John says and swallows down the lump that still threatens to choke him, even now, years later, every time he talks about her. “Died, burned to death on the ceiling in Sammy’s room, above his crib.”

“That what got you hunting?” Sam asks, eyes sweltering, focused on him so intently John can almost feel the scorch-marks on his face.

“Been hunting that sonofabitch ever since,” John agrees and takes a deep swing of his beer.

“You ever gonna stop?” Sam asks and John looks at him, thinks maybe he misjudged him. “When you get him, I mean. Are you ever going to hang it up, settle down, let your boys have chance at a normal life?”

It’s a difficult question. John always thought he would be done, one day. When he finds a way to take the demon down for good. Looking back at the years he has spent hunting, learning about lore, demons and hell, though… He doesn’t think he can, anymore.

Sam appears to understand because he nods slowly. He smiles, a small bitter replica of the real thing. “No one ever gets out, do they?”

“I thought maybe, in the beginning,” John says and Sam taps at the glass with pursed lips.

John feels an urge to justify his actions, even as Sam demands no explanation, even as he admits that he’s the same, never been able to get out. It’s frustrating because it’s no one’s business but his own, and his family’s. He empties his beer to avoid anything from slipping out. Words that would damage what he has and believes in. It’s better to keep things separate.

“Let me get the next round,” Sam says and gets up.

John tracks his movement up to the bar. He moves with the same grace he does during hunts, maybe a bit looser with the alcohol in his blood but still stable. John doesn’t understand why or how, but Sam fits. He came into their life out of nowhere and integrated himself seamlessly into their lives. John would suspect demonic scheming but Sam passed every test.

When Sam comes back, he pops the caps of the bottles the same way John does, and hands one over to John. As he sits down, John makes up his mind.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he starts, a little awkwardly because as much as he can gut a zombie or autopsy a ghoul without breaking a sweat, this makes him uncomfortable.

“Yeah?” Sam says inquiringly, obviously more open now that they’ve left the past.

“It’s about Dean,” John says and wishes Sam had brought him something stronger. Those fingers of whiskey feels long ago and his blood isn’t nearly as hot as he needs it to be for this discussion. But he also can’t be drunk for this. “He’s, uh, he’s taken quite a fancy to you.”

He watches and waits until Sam connects the dots. Sam stills, bottle halfway to his mouth and his eyes sort of bug out.

“D-dean?” he asks, shakily.

“Yeah, the kid ain’t subtle,” John says and only feels vaguely guilty about outing his son to this man who clearly hasn’t noticed. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since you arrived. It’s not his usual style so I didn’t get it at first.”

Sam laughs weakly and squirms, like he’s a teenager and John’s reprimanding him. He can even spot red blotches stretching up his neck. It’s a transformation John hasn’t seen before and he bites his cheek to contain the grin that threatens to split his face open.

“I don’t think that’s what’s going on,” Sam tries to deflect but John shakes his head.

“I’m not blind, and I sure as hell hope you’re not either.”

“He’s just a kid!” Sam argues and drags a big hand through his too long hair.

“He’s eighteen and he’s never been a kid,” John deflects easily. “Now, I’m not saying-“

“What?” Sam demands. “What aren’t you saying? That I’d be a pedophile? That’d you’d take my head off if I ever made a move?”

John glares at him. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s a tough world we live in, and there aren’t a lot of people I’d trust my son with,” John explains and Sam stills, eyes growing even larger. “We don’t stay. Ever. He doesn’t have anyone but his family and that can get lonely.” Sam looks like he’s about to protest again so John pushes forward. “I know he hooks up. He thinks he’s hiding it, but,” John snorts, “I’ve been a teenager and I’m not stupid. I can’t say I wasn’t surprised that he fell for a, you know,” John waves at Sam and hopes he catches his drift.

Sam looks like he can’t decide if he wants to sink through the floor or drag every last word of confession out of John’s mouth.

“You don’t mind?” Sam asks, tentatively, forehead riddled in worry lines.

“I mind a little,” John confesses and Sam’s shoulders hunch in on themselves defensively. “You’re older than him, and you’ve got a lot of baggage, I can tell,” John says and Sam looks up, eyes very dark. John concludes it must be the light, but he shudders a bit. “But it’s better than the alternative. I know you can take care of yourself and I’ve seen enough to know you care about Dean. And I’m not gonna be the one to take away the happiness he can find in this screwed up world we live in.”

Sam is quiet for a long time, going over what’s been said and John lets him. Sam is a good guy, and John knows he’ll make the right call.

Eventually they decide they’re done for the night. As they leave the bar, John claps him on the shoulder and ignores it when Sam stumbles a little and looks at him with wondering eyes.

 

~*~

 

It’s a hot afternoon and his dad has taken Sammy out for target practice, stating how important it is to keep up now that he’s growing. Dean’s finished his own training and is enjoying that wonderful flushed warmth flooding his body as he’s gulping down a cold beer from the fridge. He has the time off and nothing to do, and briefly he considers the couch, some lazy TV and ordering a pizza. What with Dad going a bit nuts on the work-out schedule lately, it sounds like pure heaven.

And yet.

He thinks of Sam in the room next door, probably doing reading or something equally fulfilling for his research-loving heart. He thinks that now might be an excellent time to get some answers out of him. He tries not to think of it as an ambush when he pulls a clean t-shirt over his head and steps out.

He knocks briefly on the door before he walks in. It goes a thrill through him that he’s allowed, that he can. The thrill turns quite sharply into shock when he finds himself facing the barrel of a gun.

“Dean?” Sam asks and lowers the gun an inch or two. “What are you doing here?”

 “Uh, hanging out?” Dean says carefully and splutters when he’s splashed with holy water. “Or not!” he says and wipes water from his eyes.

“Sorry,” Sam says a bit contritely and puts his gun away. “I’ve been kind of jumpy lately.

“I noticed,” Dean says, dripping with more than sarcasm.

He wanders over to Sam’s bed and plops down on it.

“Where’s your dad and brother?” Sam asks and sits on the chair by the table where he was clearly sitting before, going by the books he has open and spread across the space.

It really shouldn’t raise an eyebrow, but Sam’s lean form, sprawling, too big in the chair, surrounded by books that looks to be written in everything from Japanese to Latin to Greek and something Dean can’t even begin to decipher, it does funny things to Dean’s insides.

“Out working target practice. Sam’s hit another growth-spurt and Dad’s going nuts,” Dean says, swallowing.

Sam hums in understanding. “Yeah, I remember…” he mumbles and Dean frowns, trying to remember if he’s told this before. “My dad did the same when I was growing,” Sam hastens to explain when he sees Dean’s befuddled expression. “It’s not a bad idea. It really messes with your balance when you grow a lot quickly.”

“I guess,” Dean says because he grew slowly but steadily over his teenage years and now appears to be done.

“What do you wanna do?” Sam asks and starts putting away his books.

“How about we play a game?” Dean suggests and Sam pauses and looks over at him suspiciously.

“What kind of game?”

“A game of twenty questions where you tell me about the dangerous-but-only-to-dead-people woman I didn’t actually meet the other day?” Dean says and tries to sound calm, serious. Trustworthy.

Sam sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Dean follows the movement, wondering what it would feel like to pull his own fingers through the strands. He wonders if it’s as soft as it looks.

“Dean,” Sam says and it sounds so much like Sammy when he’s being a whining little bitch that Dean backtracks a bit. “I told you, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“She’s after you and she’s dangerous,” Dean says, voice hard. “Like it or not, but you’re a part of us now, and that makes me worry about it.”

Sam looks at him then, eyes eternally soft and it makes something fuzz warmly in Dean’s stomach. He seems to find something in Dean’s face that determines something for him. He prims his lips and stands up. Dean tracks his movement as he makes his way over to the bed and sits down on it next to Dean.

“All right,” Sam says and he’s _so close_.

Dean’s whole body is attuned to Sam’s; the heat radiating from him, the small rising of his chest as he breathes, his enormous hands resting on his thighs.

“Who was she?” Dean asks and Sam listens to Sam take a deep breath.

“She’s a reaper.”

A beat. Two.

No.

“Reapers aren’t corporeal,” protests Dean but even he can hear how his voice shakes. “And you can’t see them unless you’re already dying.”

“She’s a special case,” Sam says calmly. Too calmly. Like he’s already accepted all this.

“Does that mean you’re not-?” he trails off, not sure if he can finish that sentence.

“I am. In a way. And not, in a way,” Sam explains.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean demands and he really tries to range in the anger that’s rising in his chest.

“It means it’s complicated and I can’t explain it all to you.”

“So what can you explain?”

“You can’t do anything to help me, and you can’t stop her,” Sam says.

“The hell I can’t!” Dean roars and stands up. It’s too much to contain in the small space that is his body. “We’ll find a way. There’s always a way!”

He’s pacing the floor. He can feel Sam’s eyes following him.

“Dean,” he says, carefully, like he’s afraid, worried, about Dean.

“What?” he screams, turning on Sam. “You can’t ask me to do nothing when you tell me there’s a goddamn reaper after you!”

“Which is why I didn’t want to tell you in the first place.” Dean’s about to explode but Sam goes on. “Besides, she’s not going to reap me. Not here, not now. Maybe not for a long time.”

“That’s not much of a reassurance,” Dean grits out between clenched teeth.

“It’s more than most people get,” Sam points out. “People die every day, many completely unexpectedly. What right do we have to demand more?”

“Most people don’t run the risk of being killed by a ghoul or a fucking witch every week.”

“Sure they do. They just don’t go out looking for it,” Sam says and Dean looks at him with venom leaking out of his eyes before he sees the small smile tugging at Sam’s lips.

Sam’s kidding. It throws him and he casts about for some semblance of sanity to latch onto.

“Look, Dean. I’ve tackled death more times and in a more literal sense than anyone ever should, but this… It’s something I’ve got to do.”

“What? What is it? What’s so important you’d risk your life like this?”

“I’m saving my family,” Sam says and Dean flinches.

Of course Sam has a family. Maybe a wife somewhere, kids, a fucking dog. He’s looking to save them, and Dean knows better than most what a desperate man is willing to do for his family. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I’ve a got a brother who’s depending on me. He’s in real trouble and I’ve got to save him,” Sam goes on, oblivious to the turmoil going on in Dean’s mind.

The floor seems to be moving strangely before Dean realizes he’s tearing up. He blinks them away desperately because who the hell cries when they find out, his minds stutters on defining Sam, when they find out their Sam has a brother whom he’s fighting to save. It reminds him too much of Sammy, and how Dad put him in Dean’s arms and he carried him out of their burning house, of how he’s spent every day since then making sure Sammy’s okay.

“And that is worth everything,” Sam finishes.

His body is curled in on itself and he looks vulnerable like Sam never should. It rips at something buried deep in Dean and he finds himself needing to be closer, to touch, to comfort. He’s only barely aware of his body moving, of standing up, of putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder and the other on his cheek.

When Dean’s hand makes contact with his face, Sam stills and then breathes out slowly, and maybe Dean’s imagining it but he thinks Sam leans into his touch a little.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says and he’s not aware the words are coming from him until Sam looks up at him with a liquid gaze.

It steals his breath away.

The space between them shrinks away. In increments Dean’s body descends, like magnetism, like gravity, he finds room within Sam’s body.

Dean doesn’t know what happens, it’s fast and it’s eternal, afterwards he won’t be able to say, but in the next moment he’s sitting in Sam’s lap. He’s straddling him, pushing his hands into that long, brown, tantalizing hair, towing his head close, pressing their foreheads together. Their mouths are so close they’re breathing the same air and Dean feels the distance like an ache, like an electric force field he can’t breach.

And then it’s gone.

Crushing their mouths together, their lips collide. It’s nothing so gentle as a kiss. It’s biting, raw and desperate, trying to push himself closer, learning the inside of Sam’s mouth.

Strong hands wrap around his back, pulling him closer, dragging across his shoulders, in his hair, down to his ass where they squeeze in a firm grip. A deep moan tears out of Dean’s throat and he would blush but he’s too busy burning up from the fire that’s spreading like molten lava through his body. A rumble goes through Sam’s body and Dean shivers, angles his head to get deeper.

“Dean,” Sam pants through their locked lips.

It’s a bit warbled so Dean leaves his mouth to bite a trail down his chin, loving the scraping feel from Sam’s five o’clock shadow, licking his way down to the sensitive spot under his ear. He attaches his lips to Sam’s pulse point and _sucks_. Sam whines and grips Dean tightly as he bucks up against him. It brings their groins in contact and white flashes before Dean’s eyes because this is better than any random hook-up he has ever had.

He grinds down on Sam and enjoys hearing the sounds he’s wringing from Sam’s lips. He can feel the outline of Sam’s dick and he swallows against the rush of saliva when he figures out how big it must be.

It should be strange to think of another man’s dick, but suddenly he wants nothing more than to have it in his mouth, feel the hard flesh open his lips and press inside. He wants Sam to push him to his knees and take what he wants.

He doesn’t have time to express this before Sam stands up, lifting Dean along the way, and wow, okay, Dean is on-board with that, too. He pictures being pushed against a wall, Sam’s huge body the only thing holding him up and he groans and wraps his legs around Sam’s waist.

It doesn’t go like that because Sam stops kissing him, and pulls Dean’s legs down from his body. As soon as Dean’s feet hit the ground, Sam’s pushing him away, hands on his shoulders.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears and his eyes are closed, his face distorted in anguish.

Dean makes a valiant effort to get back on track but Sam’s hands are insistent, holding him at arm’s length and he settles down.

“What is it?” he says, panting, and he can’t believe his voice is so gruff.

Sam shudders and doesn’t look at him. Dean watches him carefully, notices he’s still hard, breathing heavily and sweating and everything that is telling Dean his body is willing. A little voice in the back of Dean’s mind is cheering at this, because even if he knows he’s hot, he’s not as built as Sam. He’s just a kid in comparison and though he’d punch anyone else for saying it, he feels very small standing next to Sam.

He takes in the flushed cheeks when Sam wipes his mouth. Obviously this is a mental block, then, and he considers his words. He wants to say something to reassure Sam that everything’s fine. He wants this, he’s legal, he’s done it before. Whatever noble reason that might be bouncing around in Sam’s mind, Dean’s got a response ready.

“You need to go,” Sam says and his voice is just as wrecked as Dean’s.

It makes a shudder go through Dean and he steps closer, puts his hand on Sam’s chest but Sam flinches away violently and Dean lowers it again. He’s suddenly feeling cold.

“Sam, what-“, he tries, because maybe he can still get it right.

“Dean, no, listen. You’ve gotta leave, don’t come to my room again. I’m serious,” Sam says and finally he’s meeting Dean’s gaze but just then Dean wishes he wouldn’t because Sam’s stare is hard as steel.

“You wanted it, too,” he says and pretends he doesn’t sound like a petulant five year old.

Sam closes his eyes and grits his teeth. “I did and I shouldn’t have and we can’t. Ever. So you need to go.”

And then the anger that Dean’s been waiting for finally comes. “Fine!” he thunders and turns towards the door. “I’ll leave you alone and fuck you very much!” he snarls and bangs the door closed behind him.

 

~*~

 

Sam stares at the closed door for a long minute, listening to his blood pumping furiously through his veins.

It’s been months, maybe _years_ , since he got this worked up.

The thing with Piper, the girl from the diner, was a test. He felt a small stirring, seeing her in the waitress dress. She took one look at him and started flirting like mad. It was reminiscent of Jess who always knew what she wanted.

Sam, after being possessed by Gadreel, after the trials, after the months he lost to his soulless self, after the cage itself, hadn’t felt like having sex. The idea of being vulnerable in front of someone else made his blood pressure rise, and not in the good way.

For a long time he was fine with it. The life of a hunter doesn’t offer a lot of opportunities for finding someone real, and he has never been much for one night stands. When his dick refused to even get hard watching porn or when alone in the shower, stroking carefully, leisurely and all alone, without the pressure of someone else’s expectations, he thought, maybe this is it, then. Done with that.

These past couple of weeks, though…

He tries to breathe through the hot blaze muddling his mind but his hands are still shaking when he turns on the shower. The cold water comes as a chock to his overheated skin and he leans heavily on the tiles.

Dean at eighteen. Christ.

He remembers when he was a fourteen year old looking at Dean, thinking he’s the most beautiful person in existence. But he tucked those dirty feelings away. He wanted normal, even back then, and crushing on your big brother was definitely not included in that.

This, though. A Dean who’s clearly set his sights on him, with the looks, the casual touches and now this. Dean isn’t as broad as he’ll be in Sam’s time. He’s still young, not as filled out, muscles still growing. He’ll even grow another two inches before he’s done.

His skin is smooth, not many scars there but those that are… Sam shudders, so familiar. He has seen almost every one get there, stitched up most of them himself.

His hands, callused just as they will continue to be for the rest of his life, and grow to be again after Castiel pulls him from Hell.

Dean before Hell. Sam gives up and switches the water to hot, puts a hand around himself and strokes. He almost creams himself right then. White, hot pleasure runs up through every nerve ending, and he bites back a groan.

Dean with his wide and innocent eyes. His soul intact. A Dean who hasn’t spent forty years in hell and a decade tearing up souls by himself, something Sam knows Dean still blames himself for. Dean who doesn’t know about angels and the apocalypse and their part in it. Dean who doesn’t blame Sam for leaving, for betraying him, for giving up on him.

His untainted brother who will be screwed up and ruined by Sam’s mere presence. Dean, when he finds out who Sam really is, will be disgusted and add this to the list of things he feels responsible for.

He should leave. This isn’t something he can mess with. He knows, he knew the second he figured out where he was, _when_ he was, that he should go, should leave well enough alone.

But he can’t. Doesn’t even know how to turn his back on this chance to fix things. Not when he’s right _here_ , before it all even started. And yet, even if there was no apocalypse or leviathan or any other crap to save the world from, he would stay for Dean.

Tears burn in Sam’s eyes as he fists himself, grip too tight. He remembers the chock he felt when he first caught sight of Dean. When he first spoke in a voice so light compared to what it will become.

Sam knows that Dean has forgiven him for his transgressions, and Sam in turn has forgiven Dean, but it’s different. For this Dean, none of that has happened yet.

And it won’t, Sam decides even as he chokes back a groan when his orgasm hits him. It’s like his body has been saving it up, just waiting, and now releases all the pleasure at once. The air punches out of his lungs and his knees give out, only the hands bracing on the tiles keep him standing.

It’s a long while before his breathing slows down. He can taste blood where he’s bitten his cheek too hard and he spits it out, disgusted. The blood is washed away quickly, mixing with his release and he grimaces.

If it wasn’t for Billie, promising to cast him out into the empty, he is sure he has carved his path to hell pretty solidly. Even demon blood and apocalypse aside, lusting after his brother like this…

He cuts the water off and slides to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs. His head thumps heavily against the wall behind him.

He was so sure he had got over this, but the evidence is right here. He'll never be over Dean. Never could, never will. He lets the tears turn down his face, untraceable for the water already there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it doesn't appear to stick I thought I'd just mention that the story will be six chapter, so two to go!

On the way back from a supply run. That’s when Sam sees him. Sitting in a diner, eating a burger, like it’s any other day and they’re just stopping for a bite. Except he’s alone. He’s reading a newspaper instead of sitting across from Sam with his laptop.

Dean.

Sam stops right there. Standing outside on the street, staring through the window like a creeper. His heart is doing somersaults in his chest and if he didn’t have the bags wrapped around his wrists, he would have dropped them.

Dean, dressed in his casual flannel, jeans and leather jacket. Not Dad’s, but one of the new ones he had to buy after Dad’s got too damaged for even the local seamstress to mend. He can’t tell from the distance but he imagines he can see the lines on his face, speaking of years fighting, hunting and surviving by holding on at the teeth.

Dean doesn’t notice him and Sam doesn’t know how long he stands there, just staring. Why would Dean show up here, in this time, and not come to him? How can he be here at all? Amara had him, God was ready to give in and it was only through some screw-up of Sam’s that landed him here in the first place. Even if he got away, even if he knew Sam had time travelled, there is no way he would know to come _here_ , to _now_.

He’s jostled when someone bumps into him coming out of the diner. They give him a dirty look and is on their way. Sam blinks and looks around on the busy street. People are walking around him and he feels out of place. It’s stupid, just standing here but his legs feel like Jell-O. Dean still hasn’t turned around, but he’s finished with his burger and is chatting to the waitress, flirting, getting a last shot in before he goes. Sam knows the pattern. It’s been a while since he last saw it, not only since he got here, but even before. His chest aches.

Suddenly it isn’t a choice at all. His feet move without his say-so and before he knows it he has marched inside. He’s no more than a few feet from Dean when he seems to sense Sam’s presence and turns around. His eyes go comically large. They stare at each other, drinking in the sight of one another.

“Sam,” Dean rasps out and he sounds wrecked.

Sam’s hand trembles as he raises it. It lands on Dean’s sternum, even as he was aiming for his shoulder, but Sam’s okay with that. He takes in the heat from Dean’s body, can feel the thumping of his heart, steady but elevated against his hand.

“Dean,” he says and then there is no space between them.

Sam has his arms wrapped around Dean, and Dean’s strong embrace calms something in him he didn’t know was hurting. He buries his nose in Dean’s neck and breathes in his unique smell that has meant safety to Sam since he was six years old. The stubble from Dean’s cheek scratches his skin and his neck is getting wet from Dean.

“Man, it is good to see you again,” Dean mutters into his hair and Sam can do nothing but nod. “You had to pick time travel of all places to go, huh? Couldn’t just take off to, say, Germany or Mozambique?”

Sam chuckles but it sounds broken and Dean squeezes him closer.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, just hugging like lost children. He doesn’t care, barely aware of the odd looks they attract. Eventually, though, he has to step back. He keeps his hands on Dean, hugging his shoulder, patting his chest.

“How the hell did you even find me? And what happened to Amara? Did she let you go?”

Dean winces and looks away. Suspicion peaked, Sam waits for him to answer.

“Look, after you left, things started to change. I can’t quite explain it but my memories have been getting kind of muddled. Like I know we started the apocalypse and released the Darkness and every damn thing that ever went bad, but now there’s this, I dunno, other thing, too. Like you and I went to California together, just took a couple years off hunting. You were getting your degree and I was working this job at a garage. It didn’t happen that way, I know, but it’s real. It feels so real,” Dean explains, sounding confused and hurt and sort of hopeful, too.

Sam feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Surely, this wouldn’t be happening unless…

“Dean,” he breathes out and Dean meets his eyes, and they’re so soft.

Dean puts a hand on his cheek and it’s a little strange because they don’t normally touch this much, not after the initial reassurance that they’re both alive. But Dean’s hand is warm and Sam can’t help how he leans into it. He relishes the soft thumb, padding across his cheekbone in the softest of touches.

“Sam,” Dean says and he’s so close.

Sam opens his eyes and realizes Dean is just a breath away and his eyes are so incredibly green. His gaze drops down to Dean’s lips when he slips his tongue out to lick them and some part of Sam’s brain is warning him that this isn’t normal Dean behavior. That same part is panicking that he has changed things enough that his relationship with Dean has morphed into this, but the rest of him doesn’t care, but rejoices when Dean leans in.

Sam stops breathing altogether when their lips connect. _So soft_ his mind supplies. He has to lean down a bit to line up with Dean but it doesn’t matter because Dean’s hand is guiding him, fingers tangling in his hair, and the other is resting, so warm, on his hip, steadying him. It’s a good thing, too, because Sam is swaying. He leans into Dean, so steady, his body unmovable.

“Dean,” he says between their lips and it’s so weak, so close to a whimper that he would be afraid of Dean mocking him, but his body seems unable to produce anything but elation at the moment.

Sam doesn’t think it can get any better than this. But then it does. Dean opens his mouth, tongue peeking out to trace across the seam of Sam’s lips and he doesn’t hesitate before he opens up to welcome him in. It tastes like burger and Sam should probably care about that, maybe reprimand him, but instead he surges closer to get more of it.

He’s so tangled up in Dean’s kiss, the feeling of his arms around him and their chests pressed together, he doesn’t notice when someone gasps behind him. Dean’s body is warm and welcoming and perfect. It doesn’t matter that this is 1997 and people might take offense at guys making out publically. It doesn’t matter that it’s his brother and wrong on so many levels. He only needs more of this, more Dean.

He _does_ notice when someone says his name, familiar but so wrangled, a voice he’s been coded to recognize and react to always and forever.

“Sam?” Dean, the younger Dean, asks.

Sam jerks a little, detaches from Dean, the one he’s kissing, and looks around disoriented. He finds young Dean standing just a few feet away, staring at him with his eyes screaming out his betrayal. Sam hasn’t seen that look on his face in a long time but it still feels like a punch in the gut.

“Dean,” he chokes and the Dean embracing him locks his arms more firmly, not letting him out when he attempts to move over to young Dean.

“Sam,” Dean says quietly in his ear. “He’s a threat. He is going to mess up the future. Don’t you want it, the future I told you about? The one where we’re together and all the shit that happened in our timeline never bothers us? Don’t you want it to be just us without all the crap that went wrong, with Hell and angels and leviathans and the Darkness? Don’t you want me? It’s you and me, forever, Sam,” Dean whispers.

Sam shivers, Dean’s breath tickling his ear and his words are soft and warm in his heart. _Yes_ , his minds tells him. _Yes, I want it_. He’s not quite sure how it all adds up but he trusts Dean, has always trusted Dean, so clever, he must have figured it out, whatever Sam couldn’t.

“Sam?” young Dean asks, confused, when Sam steps over to him.

Sam doesn’t hesitate, just pulls the angel blade from his back where he keeps it and makes for young Dean. The other diners are finally reacting to the altercation, the one they had previously so carefully ignored. With a knife, if an unconventional looking, in Sam’s hands makes him look dangerous. He stalks over to young Dean who stares at the blade, stares at Sam, at Dean, and back at Sam. He’s still confused but fear is growing behind that mask he always keeps up. It’s good, fear is good, Sam thinks and launches at him.

“Sam!” Dean yells and dives away. “What are you doing? Stop, Sam! This isn’t you,” he yells even as Sam grabs his leg and pulls him back.

He’s on the floor now, too surprised by Sam’s actions to defend himself properly. Sam towers over him, raising the blade. Dean looks so young there, his arms raised above his head, but still meeting Sam’s eyes. So desperate. It cuts like knives into Sam and his arm spasms. That face, his one anchor in life, even the times when Dean didn’t believe in him, when he wasn’t with him, when he had to fear him. Dean has always been home.

Dean screams when Sam swings the angel blade.

It cuts into Sam’s skin, into his side, sliding through skin and muscle, instantly soaked in blood. When he gets to his feet and turns around, the other Dean is staring at him with eyes blown wide.

“Sam,” he says carefully. “What are you doing?”

Sam doesn’t answer, his legs swallowing the floor when he runs towards the thing. The other Dean turns tail and tries to get out the door but Sam gets there first. He pushes them to the floor and in the fall he puts the blade to Dean’s back and lets gravity and his own weight do the work as it pierces Dean’s body. By the time they hit the ground, Sam’s lying on top of a corpse.

Sam pants when the adrenaline continues to shoot through his body and he quickly rolls over when the thing starts disintegrating. The only good thing about it. Leaves no body.

When he looks up, Dean is staring at the thing with disgust written all over his face and Sam can’t help but agree. He spits on the floor but he can still taste it. He picks up a water bottles from one of the tables and washes out his mouth. Feeling slightly better, he grabs Dean’s arm.

“Let’s get out of here before the police gets here,” he says and steers them out the back.

“The police?” Dean asks, sounding far away.

“Someone ought to have called them when they saw me with the blade,” Sam mutters and opens the door to the back alley. “Through here.”

“Right,” Dean mutters. “What was that thing?”

He doesn’t protest when Sam takes them off to a remote part of town instead of straight to the motel. Maybe he recognizes the problem with walking through crowded places when in the company of a man covered in blood.

“A siren,” Sam says through clenched teeth.

He really should have realized much sooner, but he was stupid. Blinded by hope, with seeing Dean. His brain must have shut off completely. _You’re my weak spot, and I’m yours_ , Dean once said, and yeah, Sam knows it. It’s always been true.

“What, like hot chicks living at sea, singing to men to make them steer into cliffs?” Dean asks.

“Sort of,” Sam says and he will explain, just as soon as he gets them both back safely to their rooms.

Dean seems to sense this need because he doesn’t ask any more questions but helps with streets and avoiding crowds. If Sam is still gripping his arm too tightly, Dean doesn’t mention it.

 

~*~

 

It’s just another night, like any other and Dean is bored. Sammy has already gone to bed, Dad’s sleeping on the couch, drunk off his ass, and Dean has nothing to entertain him but another documentary on nature in national geography. It’s a re-run. He’s already watched it. Twice. He should not know as much as he does about ladybugs. God, how is this his life?

Sam is supposedly in his own motel room, doing something more interesting than Dean is. With how they left things, however, Dean’s not sure he’s ready to face Sam. Since Dad has been going insane, driving them across the country in zig-zags, barely stopping long enough for Sammy to register in school, leaving Sam to pick up the slack of kind-of-but-not-really parent, Dean and he hasn’t really had a chance to sort… whatever out.

Dean doesn’t even know where he would start. Who was that guy you kissed, or thought you kissed when you were under the siren’s spell? Do you love him? Where is he? Are you into guys? Sorry I kissed you but I also kind of don’t regret it? How about we try again but this time you kiss me back, push me up against a wall and grind against me with your huge body and-

He’s getting off track. And hard. Damn it.

He stares at the ceiling, hoping it will provide some insight in what he should do next. It does not. It would, however, provide excellent view if Sam fucked him on the couch, his wide shoulders above him, moving in a steady, pounding rhythm that eventually devolved into frantic rutting.

He groans and thuds his head against the armrest. This isn’t helping.

He gets to his feet, adjusts himself and walk over to the door on light feet. He doesn’t want to wake Sammy and he’s been sleeping very lightly lately.

The door doesn’t make a sound as he pushes it open but before he steps out he notices that his door is not the only one open. Sam’s door is open, too. He’s just coming out, wearing the same clothes he wore earlier today, flannel and jeans.

He doesn’t pass their room on the way but Dean holds his breath anyway, frozen solid. He’s moving past the parking lot into the thick forest behind the motel.

Dean watches him, thinks about the- the _reaper_ , he stumbles mentally, who’s after Sam. He’s been busy doing his own strange research in his room and having quiet conversations with Dad, and Dean’s too afraid to ask if it’s got something to do with that Sam might die.

Something painful catches in his chest and he squeezes his eyes together. Sam is not going to die. He refuses to believe it. Sam’s strong, a great hunter, and so, so smart. He’s not going to be taken by some lame-ass reaper.

Having decided this, Dean determinedly grabs the keys to the Impala and steps out. He’s not going to be fucked by Sam tonight, that much is obvious, but Dean is a young, hot, red-blooded male and he’s going to get laid. The nearest bar isn’t even two miles from the motel and they don’t have a hunt going on so Dad will forgive him, maybe even slap him on the back and say _that’s my son_.

 

~*~

 

The summoning went about as well as he could have expected.

The angel Castiel has no reason to be on Earth, he doesn’t even have a vessel, and Sam is too unsure of anyone else to even attempt it. Anna is probably a little girl somewhere, already fallen with her grace ripped out. Balthazar’s much too unreliable. Hannah was, will be, loyal to Cas, but not to them. Same with Inias. Ezekiel, while vouched for by several angels, Sam has never actually met him. Samandriel, well, before the averted apocalypse and the civil war he won’t change loyalties from heaven.

He flirts with the idea of summoning Crowley, but the trouble he brings isn’t worth it on the best of days.

Feeling defeated, he makes his way back to the motel. It’s in the early hours and the moon is shining bright in the sky, but under the tree crowns the ground is dark and he stumbles a couple of times on roots he can’t see.

The windows are dark when he finally gets back. He slips his key into the lock and just as he swings his door open, the one on the right creaks and slides open to reveal young Sam. He has sleep tousled hair and he’s wearing PJs but his eyes are wide open.

“Sam?” he enquires and Sam turns to him fully.

“Yeah, what’s up? Why aren’t you asleep?” he asks, feeling bone tired himself.

“I was but I heard the door open and then the Impala’s engine and now Dean’s gone,” young Sam explains and Sam feels his blood freeze to ice.

“Do you know where he went?” he asks, trying to force his pulse back under control.

Young Sam bites his lip and wraps his arms around himself against the chilly night air. Something’s clearly up and Sam feels his patience stretch thin.

“He was crying, y’know. The other night. Right before we left and came here. He was crying when he came back.”

Sam winces. That would be the night Sam lost control, when Dean kissed him and Sam couldn’t hold back. Dean at eighteen, not as wide as he’ll grow to be, but muscled and excited, warm hands on Sam’s body. Even thinking about it now has his skin running hot and he clears his throat.

He didn’t know Dean cried, though. The idea is uncomfortable. Dean shouldn’t be crying. He only cries when whatever shit they’re dealing with becomes too much and he completely breaks down. He can count on his fingers the number of times Dean has cried in front of Sam.

“Yeah, we uh-, we had a bit of a misunderstanding,” Sam says and feels hollow.

“He’s probably gone out. Get drunk. He smells as bad as Dad when he’s been out,” young Sam says and though he tries to sound disgusted, Sam can see his eyes are worried.

Worried Dean is turning into Dad, turning into a drunk. It’s not unfounded but Sam wishes he could take away the worry. It’ll be years before it’s a problem, and even then Dean remains functional. Sam belatedly realizes it’s probably for his sake _. Watch out for Sammy_. It has a bitter taste on his tongue.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sam promises and prays to God who doesn’t listen it’s true. “I’m gonna go get him. You should go to bed, get some sleep. You start school tomorrow, right? Gotta be awake for that,” he tries to joke but his younger self nods and turns to head back inside.

Before he closes the door, he turns back to Sam. “Make sure he gets home, okay?”

Sam nods solemnly. It feels like a promise, a vow that stretches beyond this moment. It’s silly. He takes it to heart anyway.

 

 

He doesn’t remember driving to the bar they passed on the way into town. He doesn’t remember getting out of the car, or making his way inside. Suddenly he’s just there, surrounded by the low music from an old Jukebox and the buzz of a surprisingly large crowd, given the size of this town. He spots Dean as soon as he steps inside, chatting up a girl who looks to have close to a decade on him, but is definitely the hottest one in this place. Sam’s not surprised. Dean has always been smooth, confident.

Sam feels kind of stupid, all of a sudden. He’s driven here like on a mission, going to get his brother back, home to safety only to find Dean perfectly (relatively) safe. He’s clearly enjoying himself, drinking a beer he’s too young to order, leaning across the table to whisper in the woman’s ear and smiling at her when she laughs at whatever he says.

Sam’s considering going back to the motel, but it would be bad if John found out he let Dean get drunk and hook up with some chick on Sam’s watch. Or if Dean got into trouble, not that Sam can think of anything; Dean’s a capable guy and it’s unlikely a demon or angel will come after him in this time and day.

He has just decided he’ll order a drink, slip into a booth and keep a watch over Dean in an unobtrusive, not at all creepy, kind of way, when a large guy comes up behind Dean. He looks like the typical motorcycle dude, bandana around his head, mustache and dreary eyes that speak of too much to drink and too little judgement. He taps Dean on his shoulder and looms over him when Dean turns around, grin still half on his face.

Sam can’t hear what they say from over here, but Dean’s body language changes when he tenses up, gets ready to deal with whatever shit is going down. The motor guy gestures wildly at the woman who huffs and storms out. She doesn’t even glance at Sam when she passes him. Sam’s own eyes are glued to the confrontation at the bar.

Motor guy has taken Dean by the neck collar and is hauling him off the chair. That’s just about as far as Sam’s willing to let this go. He steps forward and arrives just in time to hear Dean say:

“I dunno, she didn’t seem all that into you. I can’t really say I blame her.”

He’s grinning like a guy asking for trouble and Sam curses his brother’s attitude.

“Why don’t you let him go?” Sam asks just as motor guy is about to punch Dean’s teeth out.

Motor guy turns around and sizes Sam up. Sam let’s his body do the talk for him. _Look at how big I am_ , says his body, _look at the pain I can inflict on you, and see that I’m allowing you to leave unharmed_. The hands he holds open in a gesture of a peace offering does nothing to diminish the bulk of his shoulders. Motor guy is either too drunk or too proud to listen to his flight or fight instinct that should be screaming _run_.

“Back off, dude. This ain’t your fight,” he barks out and turns back to Dean.

“See, it kind of is. He’s the son of a friend and I’m looking out for him, so let him go and no one gets hurt,” Sam explains and uses his most coaxing voice.

“Piss off,” motor guy says and seems officially done with Sam.

Too bad, because Sam’s not done with him.

 

~*~

 

The night is going great, Dean thinks as he orders another drink for Tiffany, or Tracy. His head is buzzing pleasantly and he’s not thinking about Sam for fucking once. The girl has put her hand on his thigh and laughs even at his stupid jokes, all the while twirling a strand of her blonde hair.

It’s strange how quickly the situation goes from _definitely getting laid tonight_ to _possible risk of cracking a rib_. The guy’s huge. Mostly that half-flabby kind of mass that comes from large bone structure and a mostly-meat diet, but if he put his weight behind it, Dean’s pretty sure he could punch Dean out cold. Not that Dean’s going to let that happen. His blood is alive, humming for something to happen. Theresa, Tara ran off so that’s a bust, but a fight, hell yes. Bring it.

And then Sam is there. Before he has had time to show the guy he’s more than a cute face and a bad-ass attitude, Sam has pulled the guy off of him and thrown him onto the floor. Like it was nothing. He’s not even breathing heavily.

“Just walk away,” Sam says and Dean feels every muscle in his body react by coiling up.

The douchebag snarls and gets to his feet. He goes for a punch and through sheer size alone, had it landed it might even have knocked Sam out. But Sam’s a hunter, used to bigger and badder, and there is just no way.

It’s barely a fight at all and it slowly dawns on the douchebag what’s happening. Sam seems ready to let the guy go but that’s when his friends decide it’s time to intervene. Dean did not expect the guy to have friends and from Sam’s wary look, he didn’t either.

“What’s the matter, tough guy?” douchebag number two asks with a mocking voice.

Sam backs up a few steps and Dean sees the approaching group sneer. Dean would snort except nerves are trilling across his skin. Sam has placed himself at the most advantageous position in the room with a clear view of all of them. Dean flanks him without a second thought.

It’s all sort of a blur after that. Dean takes down the guy closest to him, dunking his face in the bar, takes a punch to the eye but manages to put him in a headlock and kick him to the floor. When he looks up Sam’s in full swing. He’s engaging four other guys, maneuvering his body so smoothly that for a moment Dean forgets he’s in a fight and can use some help.

There’s no need, though, Dean realizes. Sam puts them down like he’s expecting them to pop back up, throws them hard enough to split skin, kicks them in their ribs with his steel-toed utility boots without hesitation. Dean tracks the forceful movements and the way Sam’s face seems entirely shut down, body just working on autopilot. It’s a matter of minutes before he has subdued them all.

Nobody moves when Sam straightens out and looks down on the attackers. His knuckles are bloody and his hair is wild. He’s breathing heavily, his body heaving with it. Sam seems to snap out of it when one of the douchebags whimper and Sam quickly crouches down to check they’re all breathing.

Dean’s heart is beating so fast he’s afraid it will pop right out of his chest. That wasn’t a normal reaction. He knows Sam is strong, skilled, but he’s never seen him snap like that.

The other patrons are slowly, carefully, getting out of the way, getting their things and leaving. The barkeeper is on the phone, probably calling the cops and Dean knows they need to get out of here. He walks up to Sam, who seems to have just _stopped_. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing in long, controlled breaths, his body starting to shake from the adrenaline drop.

“Sam,” he says carefully and Sam’s eyes snap to him. “We need to get out of here.”

Sam nods and walks to the door. Whispers follow them and Dean hopes they won’t remember their faces tomorrow. They hadn’t planned on leaving yet and Dad will be furious if they have to run out of town for risk of arrest for assault.

They take the Impala because Sam says they can’t leave it here over night and Dean’s drunk so he won’t be driving. Dean’s about to tell him he’s burned the alcohol out of his body since long but when his face hits the cold night air and he stumbles a bit, he has to admit it might not be true.

Sam’s hands are shaking on the wheel and Dean struggles with indecision. Finally he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, it’s safe and reassuring and Sam can use some of that right now.

“Hey, man, I don’t know what happened in there, but it’s gonna to be fine,” he says and Sam closes his eyes and smiles a strange, half-pained smile.

“Yeah, it’s just – Humans, they’re just… guys.”

Dean isn’t sure he understands but he nods anyway. It can get confusing sometimes, what with hunting and killing monsters and then turning around and acting normal. A fight, and even though they’re sort of in an awkward place right now, Dean’s pretty sure Sam cares about him, and seeing someone you care about get threatened – it can mess with your head. He’s not sure what he would have done if someone had threatened Sammy like that. The last shifter who did got seven silver bullets in his chest.

Dean’s not good with words and he doesn’t know how to express what he’s thinking so he pats Sam some more and eventually Sam seems to get it back under control. He starts the car and drives back to the motel. Seeing Sam driving the Impala, hands sliding confidently across the wheel, shifting gears, it’s nice and strange and Dean doesn’t know what to make of what he’s feeling. So he stares out the window for the short drive back.

They don’t say much when they separate at the door. Sam looks him in the eye a couple of seconds that feel eternal and Dean has to avert his eyes.

“I’m sorry tonight had to go this way,” Sam says.

Dean shrugs. Sam nods and purses his lips.

“G’night,” says Dean and slinks back inside. He barely hears Sam’s reply.

Once the fear from tonight has settled, he starts thinking about Sam. About how he came to Dean’s rescue, showing up at the bar. Sure, he could have been there to grab himself a drink, but Dean doubts it. He hasn’t known Sam to drink alone once in all the time he’s been with them. So he showed up for Dean, and then fought the guy who threatened him, and took down a whole bunch of douchebags without a problem.

It really shouldn’t be hot. Like not at all, but Dean can’t deny the thrill that runs down his back imagining Sam’s strong arms around him, manhandling him, and forcing his body to move as he wants it to. Dean grips the hardness between his legs and jacks ruthlessly. He bites his pillow to muffle the sounds that slip out when he comes. Damn it.

 

~*~

 

When Sam steps into the motel room his _not_ family’s sharing he spots his younger self immediately, huddled in the couch almost buried under a blanket. He notices the mathematics textbook as he steps closer and remembers how he used to sneak around, trying to get his homework done even when Dad was on his ass to work on his target practice. John and Dean aren’t home now, though, and he frowns.

“Heya, Sam,” he says and sits down next to the bundle that is young Sam.

“Hi, Sam,” young Sam says and they share a small smile.

“How the homework going?” he asks and stretches out an arm to see which textbook he’s working on.

“Good. We haven’t started with the geometry yet but I wanted a head start if Dad finds another hunt,” younger Sam confides and Sam nods, understanding the logic. “I don’t think we’ll be staying here much longer and they’re always at different places in schools. I figured, I’d be prepared.”

“Yeah, I remember how it was,” Sam says, flipping through the pages.

He pauses when he sees a paper slipped in between the pages, sticking to the spine. He gently pulls it out and unfolds it. Young Sam makes a noise of protest and tries to grab it but Sam has already recognized it. He sucks air in through his lungs like the oxygen levels suddenly dropped.

“Sam,” he says, trying to sound, not panicked. “You’ve seen this in a dream, right?”

Young Sam yanks the paper from his hands and pushes it back into the book. Sam doesn’t need a second look, though. He would recognize that drawing anywhere after all the months he has spent obsessing over it, adding details, looking for snippets that would give him a clue of who it was.

On the paper is a drawing of a woman dying, writhing in pain.

“How d’you know that?” young Sam demands, but he sounds afraid, not accusing.

“Calm down, it’s fine. You’re fine,” Sam says, sees the white in his younger self’s eyes growing large. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“How do you know that? I saw it in a _vision_ , or something,” young Sam says, making it sound like a disease and Sam understands. In this family, with how he has been raised, it’s essentially synonymous. “I see some woman die, every night, for weeks now! I can _feel_ it. It keeps happening, over and over again-,” he wails and he’s clearly working himself into a state of panic.

Sam places a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to infuse calm in him, but he can see the energy like a vibration going through his body.

“It’s okay-“

“It’s not okay! It’s anything _but_ _okay_! If my dad finds out he’s going to have me killed. Whatever it is, it’s _not good_.”

“John doesn’t have to know!” Sam almost yells to be heard over young Sam’s earnest voice.

It’s enough to make him pause but his eyes aren’t really focusing so Sam says it again and young Sam slowly goes from freaked out to suspicious. His eyes narrow and he leans backwards, making himself ready. Ready for an attack, ready to jump up and get out there, Sam isn’t sure, but it isn’t the reaction he was hoping for.

“Of course he has to know. He’s my _dad_ ,” young Sam says slowly, enunciating every word. Like Sam doesn’t know that.

“Yes, and you’ll tell him,” Sam agrees easily.

If possible young Sam looks even more suspicious but now confusion is leaking in, too.

“What-?” he starts but Sam cuts him off.

“You’ll tell him on your terms, when you’re ready,” Sam explains.

Young Sam pauses, considers it. He bites his lip, debating. “But what’ll I tell him?”

His voice is very small and Sam feels a strange impulse to wrap him into his arms. He doesn’t know what that means, seeing as it is, in actuality, himself, but he’s sure Dean would mock him. Well, his Dean would.

“He won’t hate you, you know,” Sam says in lieu of answering. Young Sam shakes his head and his eyes are suspiciously wet. “He might not understand, at first. And he’ll be afraid.”

“Afraid of me?” young Sam asks and Sam’s heart almost breaks.

“No, of course not. He’ll be afraid for you. Most hunters don’t accept what they can’t understand and he’ll be worried someone might come after you. He’ll be afraid that the powers might be harmful to you, mess with your head or something.”

He instantly regrets the words because young Sam pales so fast Sam’s afraid he might pass out.

“Do you think they’ll make me evil?” he asks, hysteria creeping into his voice again. “Am I evil?” he whispers and looks down on his hands as if the answers will be written there.

Well, Dean isn’t here now, so Sam pulls his younger self into his arms and rocks him gently. Young Sam is stiff as a board at first but when Sam shushes him, keep saying, “No, no, you’re not evil, you’ll never be evil,” he finally relaxes.

He sort of collapses against Sam, his whole body melting into him and Sam can’t get over how small he is. So fragile, he thinks even though he knows that at fourteen he could kill in a dozen different ways. It doesn’t seem to matter as he squeezes the thin body close to himself, trying to reassure him.

He wishes someone had taken the time to tell him this when he went through this, and in a way, he supposes, it is what he is doing now. Rectifying the situation in the particular brand of crazy that is his life.

Eventually young Sam calms down and sits back a bit. He wipes away his tears and looks embarrassed. Sam feels inclined to say something, because really, there is no shame in crying in front of yourself. He can’t tell this to young Sam, though, and he doesn’t know what he can say instead. He knows any words in reference to what he perceives as weakness will only bring greater mortification.

Casually he gets up and brings them a glass of water each, like he wanted one and only brought it to young Sam to be polite. It doesn’t seem to matter either way, because young Sam just takes it and downs the entire glass in one big gulp.

“So,” Sam starts and his younger self looks at him with an odd combination of weariness and hope. “You are psychic. Your dreams, they’re honest to god prophetic,” Sam says and tries not to think of the irony of invoking God here.  “And you said you dreamed of death, of someone dying, and I’m guessing you get just about enough visual to be able to start a rudimentary identification process.”

Young Sam appears to understand where this is going and starts to look worried again. “But if I tell them about someone I’m seeing, they’ll ask how I know-“.

“You’re not going to tell them,” Sam says calmly. This will be the absolutely hardest part. “You’re going to ignore it.”

“What?” young Sam asks, his brow furrowed. “You just said it was real? If this person is going to die, shouldn’t I try to stop it?”

It’s a valid point and under different circumstances, Sam would agree with him. “You can’t.”

The woman he has been dreaming about, one Caroline Baker, will die no matter what he does at this point. Not really a lot one can do against a fatal heart attack. He forces his mind to stop thinking in the circuits of ambulances and anonymous tips. It won’t help her now.

“Why not?”

And isn’t that just the kicker?

“This power was given to you against your will,” Sam says, carefully. “It’s not your fault, but the power in and of itself, it’s evil. It’s seductive and it will guide you onto a dark path if you let it.”

Sam thinks of the overpowering urges he felt when he got hooked on the demon blood, he thinks of the euphoric power he felt when he sent his first demon back to Hell with nothing but his mind. It’s a far way off for young Sam yet, but he knows words hold power. He can’t lie and say they’re harmless when he knows the trapdoor it really is. It’s an evil power. Nothing will ever change that, no amount of good intentions or reasoning or weighing.

“But if it can help people?” young Sam insists.

It’s so easy to recognize his own mind at work, already identifying the perks, thinking of loopholes and of ends justifying means.

“It can’t. Not really. Whatever good you do with them will have a heavier backlash than it will ever be worth. You mustn’t use it, Sam. Trust me.”

He stares into his own eyes, sees the thoughts swirling through his younger self’s head, and holds back a sigh in relief when they come to a rest.

“I do trust you, but it’s not like I can control it. I mean, they’re dreams! What am I supposed to do? Stop sleeping?”

“You’ll school your mind,” Sam says confidently, much more than he actually feels. He has no idea how this works. When he got hyped up on the blood, Dean and Bobby locked him in the panic room to detox him, but it’s not like young Sam is actively taking the substance in. There’s nothing to detox. “I’ll help you, Sam.”

“Why are you doing this? You’re a hunter, too. Shouldn’t you hate what I am on principle?” young Sam asks, and that stings, just a little bit.

“Don’t always believe everyone’s the same. And no, I would never hate you on the basis of being a psychic. I’ve known psychics, great people who helped me with things I never could have managed without them. Your dad has worked with one, too. In Kansas. Her name’s Missouri.” Sam waits while young Sam processes this. “The fear of the unknown is…,” he struggles to find words. “Look, there’s a boatload of things that can hurt you in this world, you know that better than most, and a healthy dose of fear for it is good. But you should always give people the benefit of the doubt. Not everyone’s the same, not all things supernatural is bad. There is a lot of good in this world, too.”

“Okay,” young Sam says, even as his mind is a thousand miles away, trying to decipher Sam’s words.

“Good,” Sam says and pats him on the shoulder, still so thin.

It’s not long after that Dean and John returns from their supply run and Sam just smiles when John casts a curious look at them, sitting huddled together in the couch.

 

~*~

 

Her name is Veronica, she’s an anthropology student, making ends meet by working at the sandwich bar, and her shift is just ending. Dean waits for her just outside the joint, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“You’re fine. This is normal,” he mutters under his breath, and glances at big clock on the city library across the street.

Five minutes, it’s not late, he’s not being stood up. She’s just getting ready. He leans against the brick wall to stop looking like a little boy on his first date, but his fingers are drumming nervously against his arm.

The bell on the door rings shrilly when it opens from the inside and Dean quickly stands up to see who it is. He swallows his sigh when it’s just a family of four, one obese lady, two teenagers and a toddler on her arm, strolling out. He almost sinks back against the wall when he catches sight of Veronica stepping out behind them.

“Hey,” he says and smiles too widely.

She doesn’t seem to notice, smiles in return. “Hi,” she looks at the ground with a rosy tint to her cheeks. It’s cute.

“Ready to go?” he asks and leads her to the car when she nods.

A movie and a moonlit walk, a perfect first date and she’s not a prude, despite the blush decorating her skin, so if he plays his cards right, he’ll get lucky.

When the darkness descends on them in the theatre, Dean considers his options. Slow play with a soft hand on her shoulder, just put his arm around her without hesitation, or wait until the scary parts get going and she grabs him? He doesn’t have time to decide before she squeezes up against him, a tantalizing hand stroking his thigh. He almost makes an embarrassing noise but when she looks at him questioningly he grins.

“I hear it’s really scary,” she whispers.

“I’ll protect you,” he teases and endures her smack over his head.

When they do get to the scary part, they’re too busy making out to notice.

The moonlit walk turns into a car ride out to the local beach by the lake, a blanket on Baby and heavy petting. He has her bra unclasped and her hand is stroking his dick through his jeans and everything feels pretty heavenly. _Not gay_ , he thinks, _definitely not gay_.

Her body is warm and delicate against his and it feels right. It’s not a solid chest with arms strong enough to manhandle him. It’s not the masculine musk of a man and her curves are too soft… So soft, her mentally corrects and savors it when she moans as he kisses her throat.

“Dean,” she breathes and he nips her earlobe.

She’s wearing a flowery perfume and he tries to ignore it when he manages to lick the skin where she has applied it, getting the sour tang of chemicals. The voice in his head telling him Sam doesn’t wear cologne and wouldn’t his sweat taste so much better is just a sign that it’s been too long.

He can hear Sam’s voice saying his name and kisses Veronica deeply to shut it out, but the voice is insistent and it doesn’t really sound aroused. It seems unfair his mind would provide him with mental reminders of how hot Sam is and then flip around and take it all away.

“Dean,” Veronica says and that is definitely not a _please continue_. “I think someone’s here…”

Dean looks uncomprehendingly at her and then snaps his head up when he hears the unmistakable sound of someone approaching.

“Dean!” Sam yells and oh, boy, he sounds mad.

Dean scrambles to get off Veronica, ignoring her protest when he leaves her half-dressed on the hood of the car. He swiftly adjusts himself and shifts uncomfortably, trying to will away his erection. One would think getting caught with a girl with his pants figuratively down would really be more of a mood killer but his cock doesn’t seem to have gotten that notice.

“Sam?” he asks and his voice should not sound that squeaky.

“Dean, where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking for you for hours!” Sam yells and pauses when he catches sight of Veronica. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?” he asks and wow, that level of sass could rival Sammy’s.

“Shut up, what’s going on?” he asks and thinks of a million reasons Dad could be looking for him.

Something happened to Sammy, they found out something dangerous is close by, there’s a trap…

“We’re leaving. Your dad found a- a case in Wisconsin, it’s time to go,” Sam explains and Dean wonders at the stumble and glances at Veronica.

It’s quick work to get ready, then. Dean feels a pang of regret when he tells Veronica he has to go. She’s angry but Dean can see the lingering confusion and embarrassment.

“I’ll call you,” he tries but she shakes her head.

“No, you won’t. Bye, Dean”.

She takes the footpath Sam came from, declining his offer to drive her. As she leaves, Sam stands by his side like a huge shadow and Dean tries to tamp down on his resentment.

“You couldn’t have waited an hour?” he snaps and Sam looks at him, surprised.

“We didn’t know where you were and you’re angry at me for going to find you?” he asks, all rhetorical and it pisses Dean off. He’s all but ready to launch into a speech about alone-time, about being an adult, but Sam intercepts him. “It’s your dad’s orders. You’re very welcome to bring it up with him.”

It’s the killer hit and Sam looks like he knows it. Dean won’t pick a fight with Dad. Dean won’t even be mad. He’ll bury his anger until it goes away and he forgets it. He knows what’s important. He knows there are lives at stake.

Talking to Sam is different, though. He doesn’t feel like he has to hold back this part of himself. Sam, even being that much older, experienced and, really if you think about it, a complete stranger, is easier to talk to, an equal. It’s annoying and there’s really no one to blame but himself.

He simmers quietly as Sam walks over to the car. He doesn’t look embarrassed or tense, not like Dean who’s practically vibrating out of his skin.

“D’you do it on purpose?” he asks quietly, completely irrationally, but some part of him wants Sam to care, needs him to.

It’s not fair that Dean spends every hour of the day silently obsessing over their kiss, over what almost happened, over the guy Sam kissed in that diner. Sam doesn’t get to just shrug it off, like Dean isn’t important.

Sam whirls around and stares at him. “What?”

“With the girl, d’you do it on purpose, follow us or somethin’?”

“Yes, Dean, I follow you around for hours while your dad’s worried sick, all so I might catch you fumbling your way around some girl,” Sam says, sarcasm on full dial.

“Perv,” Dean says, forcing up a smirk and then feels real amusement when Sam looks furious.

“Get your head out of the gutter,” Sam snaps and opens the door to the passenger side.

“You jealous?” Dean taunts and watches very carefully.

Sam pauses, briefly, but then he slides into the car so smoothly that Dean isn’t sure.

“I think I’m a little old for her,” he says to Dean and winks.

It’s a punch to the gut considering Dean’s two years younger than her and Sam couldn’t really have been much clearer than that. _Stop your flirting, I’m not interested in a squirt like you_. Dean walks around Baby and settles into the driver’s side and swallows past the lump in his throat.

“Whatever,” Dean says and remembers the blanket just as he’s about to start the engine.

He slips out again and picks it up from the ground, shaking off the sand and pine-needles. He catches Sam’s gaze through the windscreen. It’s there and gone in a split-second but Dean will swear on his grave his saw it. Such a sad, lost expression. It feels like fire in his veins.

On the ride back they don’t say much. Sam points him in the right direction, Dad and Sammy already having left. It doesn’t sting that Dad just left him with another hunter. He knows Dad trusts Sam.

They’re a few miles outside the county when Sam speaks again.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I could have given you some time, I didn’t think it through.”

It’s such an honest admission Dean can’t help but feel even more disheartened. It wasn’t a jealous rage. Just Sam following orders, finding Dean and bringing him.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean grunts. “We can’t all be smooth with the ladies.”

It’s a weak joke but Sam chuckles obligingly.

“My brother used to tease my all the time about that. I suppose I just acted instinctively when I saw you guys.”

It hurts somewhere undefined in Dean when Sam talks about his brother. He doesn’t miss the way he uses past tense and he’s curled up defensively in the passenger-seat. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to hear about whoever he lost, about the unreplaceable hole in his heart.

He doesn’t answer. So he’s a coward, sue him.

 “Anyway, it won’t happen again. Sorry.”

Dean should say something, but his mouth is dry he really wishes there was some beer between him and this conversation. When the silence grows too thick for him to think through, he puts on the radio.

He’s not sure he’s imagining Sam’s sigh when _Night Moves_ starts playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So young Sam and Sam finally talked... Such a minefield to write but hopefully Sam's earnestness was portrayed okay. 
> 
> Tell me what you think! Till next time :*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm late with the update again, I'm sorry! Only one to go after this, though. I hope you like it!
> 
> A lot of swearing in this chapter...

It’s the fourth time in as many weeks that Sam watches John drive away. A quick ‘You’ll keep a look out while I’m away, won’t you?’ while packing up his duffel, barely glancing over his shoulder to see how Sam reacts.

It’s not so much that it’s a problem. Sam is used to being alone with his brother after all, and it’s not like his younger self is any bother to look after, too occupied with homework and books he picks up from the city library.

It’s more the knowledge that John would have and did leave anyway. Sam is just a convenience. A trusted and experienced hunter to stay while John goes on longer and longer trips, further and further away.

It hit him when John pointed at a small village, some miles north of Bend, Oregon, while they were still puttering about doing cleanup work in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Sam’s not only convenient, he’s enabling him. It leaves a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth.

It’s not like he can say no, though. He doesn’t miss the way John is slowly growing more manic. His eyes are almost constantly bloodshot, he spends the nights not doing research in some bar getting sloshed. Gone are the days when beer was the only thing occupying the liquor shelf in the fridge. Sam will find the usual stashes of whisky, brandy and gin in their allotted hiding places that Sam has known about since he was about sixteen.

He keeps a close eye on Dean to make sure nothing disappears. It’s one thing to have a cold one in the company of his dad or Sam, but with John more and more absent, Sam feels it falls unto him to make sure Dean doesn’t develop alcoholism for a few years yet at least.

“So what do you wanna do tonight?” Sam asks as he shuts the door and checks the salt line.

“I’mma finish my English essay,” young Sam murmurs, barely shifting where he’s sitting hunched over his paper at the kitchen table.

They’re squatting this time. It’s more spacious and, in a place as far out and abandoned like this, more sustainable for the long haul. Sam did some serious checking on the ownership and activity and they’re safe but he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel comfortable like this again. He’s been living in the bunker and motel rooms they’ve paid for at least semi-legally for so long it’s become a comfort they’ve agreed to splurge on. He and Dean, that is, from his time, who isn’t here to shrug and grimace commiserating with Sam. He tries not to let it get to him.

“Sounds good. Want some dinner in maybe an hour?” he asks and young Sam just hums in agreement. “Great!” he says clapping his hands together. It’s so weird sometimes to see himself from outside his own head, and to realize how the rest of the world must perceive him, or did when he was really young Sam’s age. “What about you, Dean?”

He doesn’t get an answer so much as a black look and a door slammed in his face. It shouldn’t be surprising what with how they left things, but Sam still can’t help but feel a tiny bit amused at Dean’s teenage antics. He’s completely justified being pissed and Dean in his right age might actually have reacted the same way, but something about Dean now, a small curl around his upper lip betraying his surly mood makes it hilarious instead of problematic.

His younger counterpart lets out a puff of air and Sam looks at him with a quirked eyebrow.

“He’s been like that ever since we came here,” young Sam says and scratches aggressively in his papers.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, already knowing the cause, but he also remembers his late night talks he used to have with Dean when their Dad let them have their own room. “You know why?”

Young Sam sends him such an exasperated look Sam almost feels bad.

“Yeah, how about you just sleep with him instead of leading him on like that if you’re not gonna let him screw whatever girl he meets along the way? Makes for less friction all around,” he says all sensible, and Sam has never been so annoyed with his own reasoning as just then.

“Language,” Sam mutters somewhat distracted.

“I’d be the only one so why bother?” young Sam snorts and Sam had forgotten this rebellious age of his.

“I’m not gonna sleep with Dean,” he finally says and sits down opposite young Sam.

Young Sam looks up at him then and his eyes are filled with something Sam can’t distinguish. He can’t look away, though and the seconds stretch while they stare at each other.

“Why? He wants to,” young Sam says and unless Sam is completely off his game he detects something bordering on… jealousy. But that’s not possible, surely? It’s him, some twenty years ago and if he had wanted to have sex with Dean then, surely he would know it. Right?

“It’s not-, it’s not right,” Sam stutters and young Sam scoffs.

“Because he’s our brother, right?” he asks and Sam just about falls out of his chair.

“What.”

“What?”

“You said-“

Young Sam shifts a bit in his seat, lowering his gaze to his books and a blush is creeping up his cheeks. When he raises his head again there is no hesitation to find there.

“You’re me,” he says with such conviction it sounds like he’s laying down the law. “I dunno how many years in the future but it’s definitely a while.”

Sam is flummoxed. Out of all the possible ways his cover could have been blown he had never expected it to go this way. Thinking about it he doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. He knows his own face pretty darn well and if someone was going to notice the similarities it was he.

“How long have you known?” he asks.

Young Sam breathes deeply and Sam understands that while he was convinced before, it’s different to be faced with irrefutable evidence. He recognizes the technique and wants to hit himself. Sound sure to get a confession. In the same moment he wonders if he would have been able to sway his younger self, and if he would have wanted to.

“A while,” young Sam says. “After you helped me stitch Dad up I began suspecting but I wasn’t sure until you told me about my vis-, about the dreams.”

“And you kept quiet all this time?” Sam breathes and tries to grasp what this means but his thoughts are strangely mist-like and keep fleeting away.

“What would I say that wouldn’t make me sound nuts or make Dad go on a homicidal rampage? I thought I would wait and see what your game is.”

“And?” Sam asks.

“And you seem to be here to help. I’m not sure what you’re really doing here but apart from driving Dean up the wall,” young Sam says with a sardonic smile, “you help. And our family is pretty fucked up, as you know. Obviously.”

“Yeah,” Sam says and looks out at the setting sun. It’s a bit too cloudy to be clear but the orange colors are still beautiful. He doesn’t see it often now that they live in the bunker, and he hasn’t spent an evening just watching the sunset in months. Not since he got here, not since the Darkness…

Young Sam clears his throat and Sam focuses back in the present. Young Sam raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“What?” Sam asks, befuddled.

“So? What are you doing here?”

Oh. “I can’t really tell you, can I? You know about the butterfly effect, don’t you?” Sam asks and thinks about the movies that only came out 2005 and how differently this conversation could have gone if it was with Dean.

“You’re pretty far past claiming you don’t want to change anything,” young Sam states.

Sam must chuckle at that. He’s sure he could beat himself in a debate but it really can’t go there, not this time.

“You’re right,” he admits and young Sam brightens up and leans forward and Sam feels like a douche, “but I still can’t tell you. Not yet, anyway. I don’t want to screw anything up.”

“Screw what up? You’re helping us on cases you’ve already been on, basically handing us the answer and you’re worried about letting us know about the future? It doesn’t make any sense!”

“The cases are pretty insignificant in the grand plan of things, actually,” Sam says and young Sam boggles at him. “I know, shocker, right? But some elements are key and I can’t mess with that. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“You’re the only one who calls me that anymore, you know,” young Sam says and Sam looks questioningly at him and young Sam huffs. “Ever since you came, to avoid confusion I s’ppose, Dad and Dean only ever call me Sammy,” he explains. “It’s really annoying.”

Sam can’t help but laugh. Young Sam glares at him and it only makes him laugh harder. He got over his annoyance at being called Sammy when he realized that a) Dean would never stop, and b) it wasn’t a poke at being a little chubby boy, but Dean’s way of expression affection even when things were at their worst between them.

“At least Dad used to call me Sam most of the time and Dean was just starting to call me Sam more often, and then you came and ruined everything!” young Sam whines and Sam’s laughter dies down to a soft chuckle.

“Sorry, Sam, he’s never gonna stop calling you Sammy. It’s stuck for life, ‘m afraid,” he says and grins when young Sam groans and slumps down in his chair.

“Freaking figures.”

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder and young Sam reluctantly straightens up again.

“Hey, it’s not so bad. He loves you, you know. More than anything in the universe,” he mumbles and wishes it wasn’t so.

Young Sam stares at him, perhaps sensing the unspoken depth to his words, and bites his lip.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” he says quietly, “so you don’t have to worry about them finding out. I mean, I can’t promise they won’t figure out by themselves but my lips are sealed.”

“Thanks,” Sam says sincerely and squeezes his hand around the skinny shoulder.

Young Sam trails his gaze across Sam’s muscled body in a reverse mirror of Sam’s own thoughts. Something like resignation settles across his features. It should seem foreign on such a youthful face but it’s so familiar Sam aches.

“So I never get out, huh?” young Sam asks in a quiet voice.

Sam’s heart breaks. He wants to reassure him, wants to tell him the story of a young man who made his own way and still, at the end of the day, never belonged anywhere but right next to his brother. He knows his words will be nothing but platitudes to his younger self, who’ll see his own truth instead of understanding Sam’s.

“It doesn’t have to be like that for you,” he says instead.

Young Sam’s eyes fill with tears but he swallows and scribbles something in his notes. Sam tracks the movement of his pen while he searches for words. After years of resenting his dad for not understanding that he wanted something different from life, he stands at a loss for words in the face of complete empathy with insight into every convoluted twist of his fears and desires.

“I know it will seem like empty promises to you now but it really will be different,” he says.

Young Sam nods vigorously and glances up just long enough for Sam to see the red spider web in the white of his eyes.

“Yeah, no, I know. It gets better and all that, right?” he says and Sam ignores the way his voice cracks the tiniest bit.

“I’m not gonna lie. It’s gets pretty crappy at times, too, but Sam,” he waits until young Sam steels himself and meets his eyes, “the important things are going to be okay.”

He prays to God it’ll be true.

After that they settle into silence. Young Sam gets himself together and goes back to his homework. Sam watches him a few minutes, helps him out with a few pointers and then wonders at the paradox of teaching himself something.

“I sorta can’t get over how huge you are,” young Sam says during a short break.

“Just gotta start eating more,” Sam says and winks.

“Really?” young Sam asks, sounding a little worried and Sam thinks of all the left out meals he used to suffer when money was tight. It’s been different since he came, though. With him here, even when John leaves, or as was the case before he found whatever lead he’s still chasing, they went together, Sam has been making sure there is always food on the table.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says reassuringly, glad he can be upfront about this at least.

Young Sam seems to be content with this. He finishes up his essay. Sam starts preparing dinner, making sure to add a salad he knows young Sam will appreciate. In his own youth it was a rare day to see something green on the table, and it usually came with taunts from Dean and a rueful look from Dad.

Young Sam keeps on working and Sam hums quietly under his breath. It’s peaceful.

 

~*~

 

There is a loud _thunk_ , followed by a cut off whine and Sam doesn’t think. He pulls his gun from the waistband of his jeans and kicks in the door. He has a key, but if Dean’s being hurt he needs to be inside right now.

The scene that meets him is not what he expected.

It’s not the first time he has walked in on his brother, it’s not even the first time he has done it when Dean’s _in flagrante_. It is, however, the first time it has been with a guy.

Sam is staring. He should probably duck out and pretend he didn’t see a thing, but he’s sort of stuck, staring at Dean, pressed against a wall. He’s almost completely hidden behind the massive bulk of some guy doing the pressing. He’s huge and has his head buried in Dean’s neck, groaning loudly as he moves his hip in an unambiguous way. Above his shoulder, Dean meets Sam’s eyes and their gazes lock.

“Dean,” Sam chokes out when he finds his voice.

Dean, red and sweating, groans. His eyes slam shut and his head falls back against the wall. His entire face twists up and then relaxes as he climaxes.

The guy who seems to finally notice someone’s behind him, quits his grinding against Dean and turns his head around to see what’s going on. When he catches sight of Sam, gun in a ready low, hesitating in the doorway, his eyes bulge out and yells.

“What the fuck?!”

Sam can finally move, then, and quickly tucks the weapon away and ducks out. “God, I’m so sorry. Sorry!” he manages and closes the busted door after him.

He stands there for a little while, just breathing, cheeks burning up. Eventually he goes back to his own room, figures it won’t look great if he’s hovering just outside when the guy finally leaves. He refuses to think that the guy might be sticking around.

He grabs a beer from the fridge and downs the whole thing in three deep pulls. He doesn’t keep whiskey or any other hard liquor, too afraid Dean will backslide, and since he came here, he hasn’t felt the need. Right now, though, he wishes for something strong enough to black out the last few minutes from his memory forever.

It can’t be more than a few minutes before he hears the door one room over open and a low conversation between two males. Sam creeps up and presses his ear to the wood like a pervert and listens when Dean awkwardly thanks the guy. Sam wants to hit him when the guy just says something dismissive and leaves.

So what if his brother’s not the most virtuous person, he still deserves respect from his hookups.

As soon as the steps fade away, Sam opens his door and steps out. Dean turns to him, maybe surprised to see Sam there. Or maybe not, from the way he ducks his head, as if waiting for Sam’s judgement.

Sam looks at Dean. He has pulled on some pants but he’s still bare-chested and Sam can’t help how he roams over all that skin that’s flushed from sex and glistening with sweat.

“What?” Dean demands and Sam gaze jumps up to see Dean still staring resolutely at the ground.

His cheeks are red from embarrassment but his lower lip is sticking out in an honest to God pout, and the contrariety is doing funny things to Sam’s insides.

“What?” Sam says in response and Dean huffs angrily.

“Are you going to say anything?”

“About what?” Sam asks, feeling lost, because should he be saying something?

He’s pretty sure John has already had the bird and the bees talk with Dean at this age, and it’s not like it’s Dean’s first go at the scene. Sam has always known Dean is bi; he’s seen him looking at guys with lingering eyes, but he has never known him to act on it. While that’s a glaring hole in his knowledge, it doesn’t feel like Sam has anything to add to that.

Sam’s nonplussed reaction must have spurred something in Dean, though, because he looks up hesitantly. He studies Sam for a while, and Sam feels his scrutiny like a presence on his skin, tries not to shudder. 

“You don’t mind? That I’m-, that I, uh, with a guy?” Dean asks and Sam feels nausea well up.

“Wanna come inside for a beer?” Sam asks in lieu of answering, holding up his door in invitation.

Dean hesitates for a second, looking at Sam’s room like it will swallow him whole if he enters, but then his shoulder straightens out and he marches in. He sits on Sam’s bed and Sam tries not to think of what happened the last time Dean was in his room.

He hands Dean a beer and opens a new one for himself. He’s just about to sit down, too, when he realizes Dean’s still shirtless and while his brother isn’t shy, this Dean is younger and still a teenager, and damn, what is he even doing?

He changes course and grabs his duffle bag, rooting around until he finds a t-shirt that should work. He throws it at Dean who catches it and looks down on it curiously. When he sees what it is, he looks mortified and quickly shimmies into it. Despite being one of Sam’s smaller ones, Dean, especially this version of Dean, still drowns in it.

Sam pretends he doesn’t notice when Dean tugs the hem to his nose and breathes in; busies himself with shutting the bag and throwing it back into the closet. His heart is hammering like a sledgehammer in his chest.

“You’re not gonna tell Dad, are you?” Dean asks when Sam sits down on the bed.

His voice is so quiet Sam wonders what would happen if he said he would.

“John wouldn’t care, you know,” Sam offers. Dean makes a sound of protest. “No, really. He’s not a monster, Dean. He doesn’t care about sexual orientation. He cares that you’re happy,” Sam tells him, carefully. “And safe,” he adds and fights the pictures that threaten to invade his mind of Dean being overpowered by some guy in an alley.

Dean makes a squeaky noise and Sam glances to his side. Dean’s ears are red like tomatoes and Sam has to mentally rewind to realize what Dean will hear his words as. He blushes when he gets it, and clears his throat awkwardly.

“Not condoms, well, obviously condoms, but who you choose to have, uh, have sex with,” Sam forces out.

“How can you be so sure?” Dean asks and he sounds miserable, a dejected curve to his shoulders, the cold bottle resting, forgotten, on his thigh.

“He told me,” Sam says honestly and sends a silent prayer he won’t have to tell Dean under what circumstances.

“What did he say?”

What, indeed. He can’t exactly explain how his dad practically pimped him out to Sam. No matter what kind of weird flirting-but-not relationship they’ve got going on, or whatever experimental age Dean is in, he doubts he’ll survive the humiliation of knowing his dad talked to Sam about Dean’s feelings for him.

“It’s a rough life, being a hunter, and we should look for happiness wherever we can find it. Orientation is a minor detail in that equation.”

Dean falls quiet and Sam lets him think.

Sam didn’t realize Dean ever struggled with his sexuality. Of course, Sam spent most of his teenage years terrified Dean should ever mind out about his not-so-normal attraction to Dean, and he sure as hell never told Dean about that. As much as they talk, there are things they simply don’t share with each other. Glancing at Dean’s pinched expression, it’s driven home more effectively than ever before.

When the angels called him the boy with the demon blood, abomination, it hurt, but it could never hurt as much as Dean, should he ever find out, turning to Sam and calling him disgusting, a freak.

So they sit, side by side. Sam can feel Dean’s heat leak into his body.

Dean turns to him, lets his eyes roam over Sam and Sam feels it on his skin like burning pinpricks. He’s not sure who moves but suddenly they’re much closer. Dean looks between Sam’s eyes and then drop down to his lips and Sam’s throat is dry like the desert.

Sam should stop it. He knows what’s happening, and he’s the only one who can. It’s not fair to Dean, he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know all the reasons they shouldn’t. And yet, if Sam turns him down now, he’s not sure he can bear the hurt Dean will feel. Surely it won’t matter if it’s just a small kiss. Just to show him it’s fine, that it’s okay.

Their lips connect in the gentlest of touches. Just a whisper against his skin and still it burns like hot lava. Sam’s stomach flips three times and he draws a shaky breath, right there, against Dean’s mouth.

Dean has put his hands in Sam’s hair when he didn’t notice and when Sam bends his head a little he feels the tug against his scalp. As if trying to keep him there, Dean’s grip tightens and then he presses his mouth to Sam’s again. Sam’s not trying to move away, though. Even if he should, he can’t. He tips to the side to get better access and sweeps in and seals his lips against Dean’s.

Sam lets his hand travel up Dean’s chest, feels the heavy pulse beat there, follows the movements when Dean’s lungs expand. He continues up along his throat until he’s stroking Dean’s cheek, smoother than it has been in years with just the faint brush of barely-there stubble. His skin is hot, flushed and Sam wants to kiss it, lick it, mark it. He presses closer, his tongue stroking Dean’s lower lip in preparation before he bites down.

“Nngh,” Dean moans and opens up, breathing hot air.

Sam doesn’t hesitate, just sweeps inside, licking, tasting the inside of Dean’s mouth. He sucks on Dean’s tongue, and savors the small sound that comes from Dean’s throat.

One of Dean’s hands has travelled from his hair down to Sam’s back and grips his shirt in a tight fist. In response, Sam pushes until Dean leans back on the bed. Sam looms over him, covering his body, so much bigger than Dean at this age.

If his Dean was here, he would push Sam back and wrestle him into submission, if he wasn’t Sam’s brother, of course. If this was his Dean, he would be shoved off and probably punched.

A cold lump builds in his stomach and he pulls away, just an inch, just enough to look down on this Dean, young, almost naïve and so trusting. His eyes are dark pools, the green irises pushed out to small circles around his blown pupils.

“Wha-?” Dean asks, his voice thick with arousal.

“Dean, we shouldn’t-“, Sam says and prepares to push off completely, but Dean finally seems to understand what he’s thinking and his grip turns to iron.

“Don’t even,” he warns and pulls Sam down again.

Sam lets him.

The kiss isn’t gentle anymore. Dean savagely presses their mouths together, thrusts his tongue into Sam’s mouth. It’s filthy and aggressive and it helps Sam forget what they’re doing, what it means, and focus on what’s in front of him.

When Dean copies Sam’s earlier move and starts sucking on Sam’s tongue, it sends a shock of pleasure down Sam’s body, straight to his cock and he rocks against Dean’s thigh. He pulls Dean’s hands from his body and shushes Dean when he protests. He pushes them up above his head and locks them down with his forearm. With his arms stretched above him, lips kissed swollen and dark eyes staring up at him, Dean looks like sin manifested.

Sam bends down to Dean’s neck, inhales the smell of Dean, almost unchanged.

“Sam,” Dean whines when Sam doesn’t do anything but breathe.

Sam can feel him move restlessly under him, and so he nuzzles his throat, kisses the skin he finds under his ear, nips carefully over his pulse point. Dean swears and bucks his hips into the air but he won’t find any friction there. Sam applies his lips and _sucks_ , logic completely bypasses him as his lizard brain states Dean will look oh so pretty with Sam’s mark on his pale skin.

Dean fights to move his hands, seems to be saying something but it isn’t until he feels Dean’s knee at his stomach that his minds clicks back online and he rears back.

“Oh God, Dean, I’m so sorry-“ he starts and tries to shift away, but Dean catches his wrists and keeps him there.

“Don’t you dare stop,” he says in a low growl and Sam pauses.

Sam watches in fascination as Dean shifts back on the bed, his eyes never leaving Sam’s. Slowly, he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it away. Sam lets his gaze travel down the path of his skin, watches his perked nipples, sees the faint scars and the light bruising decorating his toned stomach. When he looks up again, Dean is watching him. He’s biting his lip and looks seconds away from covering back up.

“You’re beautiful,” Sam says and expects Dean to snort derisively.

“Shut up.”

Sam tracks the flush crawling up his chest, fascinated.

He takes mercy before Dean decides even a good fuck isn’t worth this mushy humiliation. He clambers on top of Dean, careful not to squish him. They kiss again and Sam thinks he can live off of this, he won’t even need air. Just let this moment stretch on forever.

He kisses a trail down Dean’s body, stays a second extra on each of the scars, the ones that will be gone in his own time, erased by angelic interference. His hands are resting gently on Dean’s hips, holding them down when Dean’s squirms as he licks into his navel and breathes across the sensitive skin leading down to his pants. He unbuttons them and drags the zipper down in increments, relishing the trembling muscles underneath his fingers.

“Sam,” Dean says and he sounds so small.

It’s strange. Sam knows Dean has had sex plenty times at this age, he has heard the accounts first hand when lying in bed blushing furiously as his Dean explained how this girl went down on him, or how he licked them out. He has seen Dean have sex, the unfortunate times he walked in on him, and it’s usually a lot, not rougher, but more action, movement. Maybe by forcing this stillness into it, Dean’s out of his comfort zone.

Sam looks at Dean carefully when he pulls down his pants and underwear. Dean is panting, perspiration forming on his flushed chest as it rises quickly with his rapid breathing. Dean has his eyes closed and head bent backward, biting his lip to muffle the sweet sounds making their way up his throat.

“Let me hear you,” Sam whispers and Dean snaps his eyes open and rise up a bit to look down on Sam.

A loud moan drags out of him when Sam breathes warm air on his dick. He has seen Dean’s cock before; just flashes in between getting out of the shower and getting dressed, or walking around half-asleep in a t-shirt and old worn boxers with his junk hanging out.

He has never seen it like this, though. Red, erect and jutting out from his body on proud display. Pre-come is pooling in the slit and Sam can’t help his tongue sneaking out to lick his lips in anticipation. Dean, apparently watching him, groans and slumps down on the bed, hands going up to cover his face.

Sam lowers himself, ready to take the head in, when a memory slams into him. It was so long ago but the mind is a powerful thing. Flayed open and locked within his own body he is forced to watch and feel every second of the endless violation of his very core. He can’t focus on anything but the blazing heat searing on the inside of his eyelids.

His body seizes up. His muscles tremble at a memory that exists only as an imprint on his soul. He tries to think himself past it, like he taught himself to do over the months after he regained his memories, like he had to do again after he found out about Gadreel. _It’s my body_ , _my choice_ , he thinks desperately.

He starts hyperventilating, gripping Dean’s hips so hard it will leave bruises.

“Hey-,” Dean says from somewhere far away.

Sam’s arms spam and he collapses down on the bed, barely avoids crushing Dean, who moves aside and arranges them until they’re lying face to face.

“I can’t-“, Sam chokes out and tears are building in his eyes.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Dean demands and Sam looks up at him helplessly. “You’re okay,” Dean assures him, a hand stroking Sam’s hair and the other going down to cup his cheek. “It’s fine. Whatever’s going on, you’re fine.”

“You don’t even know what’s wrong,” Sam says, despairingly.

Dean gently takes his clenched fists into his hands and coaxes Sam into relaxing them.

“So tell me,” Dean invites and strokes his hand up and down Sam’s back.

It’s achingly familiar and yet it sends another wave of _painhurthumiliation_ through his system and he shivers, cold from sweat covering his body.

They lie like that for a long time. Sam, just breathing, lets the warmth from Dean burn away the images threatening to invade his mind. After a while Dean starts humming, a low scratchy tune, but Sam smiles. He pulls Dean closer and enjoys the arms around him that tightens in response.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbles.

“Is it because we’re both guys?” Dean asks, his quiet petting slowing a little, unsure.

“No, no, of course not. That has nothing to do with it,” Sam says, because it doesn’t and them going even this far was a stupid attempt to show Dean how fine it is.

“Then why?”

“You don’t know who I am,” Sam says, knowing that even if it isn’t the whole truth, it’s a good enough reason to stop.

Dean won’t understand why, and even this he can’t bring himself to say.

“You’re Sam,” Dean says, like it’s obvious. “You’ve been with us for months. I know I don’t know everything about you but I’ve seen enough to know you’re a good guy. It’s not like you know everything about me, either.”

Sam snorts. He knows more about Dean than Dean does right now.

“So what if you’ve got secrets? Unless there’s someone else, I don’t see how it matters,” Dean says, defiant, responding to Sam’s dismissal without intending to.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Sam tries but is cut off when Dean presses a hot palm against his cock through the denim of his jeans.

 “You like that?” Dean growls in his ear.

He’s not quite hard, not even after calming from the panic attack in Dean’s soothing arms. But he is a man, and Dean’s hand is hot and knows what it’s doing, and Sam feels himself responding.

Sam groans and presses closer.

“It’s as simples as that,” Dean declares and presses his lips to Sam’s.

And it really is. With Dean’s mouth, hot and insistent, against his own, Dean’s hands pressing into his back reassuringly, like a reminder that he’s there, everything else melts away.

It doesn’t matter who Sam is, or is going to be, to Dean. He might never return and Dean will never find out unless Sam tells him. Dean, hot and here, pressing closer to him, that’s who he needs to think about.

Dean, naked and determined, throws his leg over Sam, and push their groins together. It should be uncomfortable, the rough material grinding against his bare dick, but Dean doesn’t seem to care. His hands fumbling to unbutton Sam’s shirt and squished between them as Dean presses Sam onto his back, straddling him. Sam gives in to the incredible heat and puts his hands on Dean’s back, adding to the pressure. Dean moans directly into his mouth and Sam swallows the sound.

Finally, Dean gets the last button undone and flings the shirt open. Sam sits up to help him get it off and with Dean in his lap, it’s so similar to that first time, and Sam shudders. He nips at Dean’s lower lip before pulling away for a second to get his t-shirt over his head. When he’s free of it he looks at Dean but he’s stuck staring at Sam’s chest, lip sucked into his mouth.

Sam is not self-conscious. He’s familiar with his own body and knows he’s well built, but under Dean’s intense staring he thinks of all his blemishes. He’s got more scars than he can count, ugly ones that tells the story of suffering and loss, tragedy and death. He sits very still as he lets Dean look his fill.

“You’ve been around for a while, haven’t you?” Dean asks, almost reverently while his fingertips trace the white lines and the puckered skin.

“It’s the life,” Sam says and really hopes Dean won’t notice the scars that shouldn’t be physically possible on a living human being.

“What’s the tattoo for?” Dean asks, following the blank ink of his anti-possession sigil.

“It protects me against demons,” Sam explains. “You should think about getting one yourself.”

He feels stupid for not suggesting it to John earlier, but it hasn’t come up and Sam knows that it will be many years before running into demons will become a regular occurrence. He also has the foreknowledge of Dad’s diary and every encounter with demons are carefully noted.

Dean hums above him, seemingly lost in thought. Sam lets himself soak in the moment, feeling Dean’s hands on his skin, the body heat that’s created between them. Dean, close enough to hear his breathing and count his heartbeat, safe in Sam’s arms.

It’s an infinite moment, lost outside of time. There’s no rush for anything, just the pleasant buzz of being aroused and close to the person you love. Sam sinks down into the sheets, brings Dean with him.

He caresses the skin he encounters on Dean’s back and down his butt and legs. Dean shivers in his arms and rocks against him gently. The air around them changes and what was leisured become urgent. Dean ducks down to kiss Sam and Sam lifts his head up to meet him, their lips crashing together. He grabs hold of Dean’s legs and rolls them around until Sam’s on top again. Dean stares up at him with wonder and Sam bends down to kiss him again, he can’t get enough of that mouth.

Distracted with the kiss, he barely notices as Dean’s hands sneak up to unbutton his pants and pulls them down, but he gets with the program quickly and shucks them off. When there’s nothing between them anymore, he gets between Dean’s legs and they groan in unison as their groins finally connect.

He rocks gently against Dean, sucking a red bruise on his neck and grips around Dean’s waist and scrapes against his hair. Dean moans and arches off the bed to meet him, one arm back around Sam’s shoulder and the other twisting in the sheets. Sam can feel pressure build in his gut and his balls draw up and Sam knows he’s very close.

He dives down a hand to wrap around them and Dean wails when Sam gets their cocks together in one fist, pulling furiously. Sweat and pre-come make things slick and Sam swivels a thumb around the heads to collect more. There’s a low keening voice coming from somewhere and Sam’s not sure who, but it doesn’t matter. They’re not kissing anymore, but panting at each other’s mouths, stealing the air and drinking in the smell of sex.

“Sam-,” Dean whines and Sam knows what it means.

He increases the pace and tries to find breath for words. “Yes, yeah, come for me, Dean, come on,” he pants.

Dean goes completely rigid for a second and then arches violently over the bed. Sam watches in fascination as his eyes rolls up in their sockets and then close. He’s not making a sound but the air that comes up his throat is wrangled and Sam would kiss him but his coordination is shot to hell. The come shoots up over Sam’s hand and between their bodies, making everything wetter. It’s about the hottest thing Sam has ever seen and before he has time to do anything else, white explodes in his vision and the build in his groin surges up until it shatters.

He’s vaguely aware of landing on top of Dean who grunts in dismay but his muscles are jelly and there’s not a chance of him moving any time soon. Pleasure is shooting from every nerve ending and he feels light, like he’s hovering above the bed rather than being smashed out on top of it.

Dean seems to give up on trying to move him and settles underneath him, huffs of air heating up and chilling a spot on Sam’s neck as Dean breathes.

Eventually the world seeps back in and Sam reluctantly rolls off, chuckling at Dean’s choking noise. He ignores the glare he gets in return and nuzzles in until they’re lying pressed together. Dean’s not really angry, or he forgets to be, because he snuggles up, his face hiding in the crook between Sam’s shoulder and neck.

For a few minutes everything is perfect.

Dean starts to squirm a bit, the cool come on their bodies have started to dry and it’s itchy. The air smells of sex and sweat and everything feels generally gross.

“Should probably shower,” Sam mutters and starts rolling away.

“Yeah, I bet Dad’s coming back with Sammy soon,” Dean agrees and Sam freezes.

Fuck.

Everything that he has been trying to shove away comes back with those few words. He just screwed his brother, who was in an emotional state, who’s eighteen and who doesn’t know they’re related. The numerous levels of wrong in this scenario is staggering.

Sam swears and starts pulling on clothes quickly.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks, voice all concerned and it makes Sam want to hurl something in the wall, punch something and possibly scream.

“You gotta get going,” he says, sounding strangled even to his own ears.

“What? Why?” Dean demands. “What’s going on?”

He stands in front of Sam, reaching for him and it’s too much. It doesn’t matter that they were curled up together not minutes ago, he can’t take being touched right now. He squeezes his eyes closed so he won’t see the emotional damage he’s about to inflict.

“I’m sorry, this was a mistake.”

He senses rather than sees Dean go still. The air is quivering between them.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, his voice low.

Sam is so grateful he’s not taking it. His Dean doesn’t take bullshit from anyone, he’s sturdy and Sam’s trusted him to keep going all his life. This Dean, though. He’s not ready for the shit Sam brings into his life, and he’s not mature enough to just shake things off. It’s a strange combination. He needs to go, and won’t, and it’s going to hurt to make him.

“I’m saying we shouldn’t have done it and it can’t ever happen again,” Sam forces out, finally looking at Dean.

Dean is pissed. The anger is barely contained in his hunched shoulders and gritted jaw. He’s standing still, waiting for the second he gets to lash out, just making sure he has a reason to. But Sam has known him all his life. He can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the fear of rejection and of being wrong. It kills him to do this, but there is really no way this can be happening between them. Even if they weren’t brothers and Sam wasn’t taking advantage and shit wasn’t about to go down in this timeline, Sam might not even be around.

“No. Bullshit,” Dean says and Sam means to interrupt but Dean plows on. “You don’t get to decide what’s a mistake. You wanted this, you wanted _me_!”

“I did,” Sam whispers, “but we can’t do this.”

“Why the hell not?” Dean demands and Sam supposes it’s a fair question.

“It’s complicated,” the words coming back like a loop, they’re just going in circles with this.

“The simplify it! I’m not stupid!” Dean yells.

Sam knows, God, does he know. Dean has always let Sam take the shiny place of the family genius, bring home the high grades and teachers’ praise. Dean barely even finished his GED, so eager to start helping with the family business, saying he didn’t care about school anyway. Of course, the school thing might have been true, but Dean is a freaking genius.

Sam played along when Dean dumbed himself down, for Dad, for Bobby, chicks and whoever listened. But Dean, understanding the intricate power plays between Heaven and Hell, figuring out when they’re being duped, and getting through hours’ worth of research and managing to make sense of it, Dean isn’t stupid. He never has been. And Sam can’t bear to make him think he is when Dean clearly recognizes this and demands to be acknowledged for it.

“No. You’re not,” Sam says and Dean pauses, realizing the weight Sam is putting behind the words. “But I still can’t tell you. Not because you wouldn’t understand or because I don’t trust you, but because of things that are beyond you and me.

“I’m not going to be around forever, Dean. I don’t know when I’m going, and I don’t know if I’ll live through it, but whatever we have between us,” Sam says, gesturing between them, “it can never be.”

Dean’s anger is leaking out of him, leaving a broken boy with his heart ripped to shreds and Sam wants desperately to comfort him, hug him and reassure him.

“Just tell me something,” Dean says and Sam tenses. “Why my family? Why us?”

Sam pauses, looks at Dean who’s waiting for an answer Sam’s not sure he can give.

“You’re at the center,” Sam says finally, and wishes it wasn’t true.

“That makes no sense at all,” Dean snarls and Sam winces.

It took Dean a lot of convincing after he was pulled from Hell to even consider an angel helped him, personally. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that this young Dean isn’t ready to take Sam’s word for their extraordinariness.

“Dean,” Sam tries, gentle voice, coaxing, but Dean is just about done.

“No, you know what, fuck you and fuck your secrets! You can take them and shove ‘em up your ass! I’m done.”

He turns for the door, “Tell my Dad if he asks, would you? If you’ll be around for that long,” he adds with a sneer and then he’s gone.

 

~*~

 

Dean needs air. Quickly. The steps from Sam’s room to the Impala don’t really register, his mind a foggy haze. He tries desperately not to think about what happened. It’s difficult, not only because he’s spent the last couple of months doing nothing but think of Sam, but also because he can still smell Sam on his skin.

He fumbles with the key, glad it didn’t fall out of his pocket. He’s not sure what he would have done if he had to go back. Possibly punch something. Maybe start crying. Man, he is not going to cry over this. _Fuck_ Sam and _fuck_ his fucking leaving. Who the fuck needs him anyway.

When he turns the ignition music roars out of the speakers and he jumps. Right, he had the car before. He listens to AC/DCs _Rock or Bust_ and can’t help sympathizing with the lyrics. He turns the volume up even more, enjoying how it pounds against his eardrums, and swerves out of the parking lot.

He doesn’t care where he’s going. He just knows he has to get away from here. Away from Sam and his freakishly big body, his floppy hair and his fucking eyes that look sad even when he tells Dean they can’t. What the fuck ever. Like he fucking cares.

He pushes down on the gas and savors the sucking in his gut when the scenery swooshes by. He’s thankful Sammy and Dad aren’t here to see his breakdown. Dad would smack his ass for treating Baby this way and Sammy would berate him for driving too fast. Dean grits his teeth and squeezes the wheel like he can hear them saying the words now.

He must be a couple of miles out of town at least when he notices something on the road ahead. A person, just standing there.

He swears and breaks, trying to compensate when the car starts swerving. He’s slung forcefully against the car door when the tires lose their grip and the Impala twists uncontrollably. He feels sick and can’t tell up from down, just the swirling colors when the car veers around.

Everything comes to an abrupt stop when he hits something solid. More solid than should be on an empty road surrounded by fields. His head is spinning but he peers up over the wheel to see what stopped them, and he’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating when he sees the person he tried to avoid, a middle-aged man, with his hands on the hood, planted there for all the world like he’s the one who stopped the car.

“What the-?” Dean grunts.

The man blinks then, and his eyes catch in the sun, glinting yellow. Dean passes out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, it's over! Boy, this has been a ride. I've always wanted to write a time travel story so this feels like a huge accomplishment. 
> 
> This last chapter was by far the hardest and most fun to write, mostly because there are always such big expectations on the ends, and the big reveals and what have you. I really hope I don't disappoint you too much... *sweats 
> 
> Lastly, a huge heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone who's read, commented and left kudos, you guys are the best!!

When Dean leaves, Sam spends about ten minutes just pacing the floor. It’s stupid, so stupid. His own brother-, his younger and emotionally vulnerable big brother who he loves and would die for. That’s the guy he decided to have sex with. _Great_ , he thinks and slams a hand into the doorframe.

His body is still tingling with pleasure, sending waves of endorphins into his blood but he has a sinking feeling in his gut. His mind is running through a thousand scenarios of what he could have done or said differently. Exhaustion is pulling on him and he goes into the bathroom and washes his face in cold water. It helps only moderately and after another mile paced into the rug he slams the heel of his fists into the wall and leans his forehead against the cool surface. _This isn’t helping!_

He settles down by his table, the research a scrambled mess after his quick sweep of it and he dejectedly sets on organizing it. He has been looking at it for weeks and it’s still so convoluted his heads hurts just thinking about it. He thumbs a halfway translated instruction manual on demonically induced seers and their methods, written in a Zorotuan dialect of the extinct Kwadi language.

When he has struggled through another two pages of prehistoric prophecies from his uploaded Men of Letter library without taking in a word, he admits defeat. It’s barely dusk and his skin is buzzing from pent up energy.

Taking a look at the time he wonders when John and young Sam will be returning, and peers through the blinds out at the parking lot. Dean hasn’t returned yet either, the Impala insistently absent. Something’s nagging at the back of his head, but he can’t put his finger on what it is.

Giving up he pulls his phone out and dials Dean’s number. It rings a precursory two times before notifying him that the phone is out of service, please try again later. Okay, so Dean will still be upset but it’s unlike him to leave himself unreachable.

He flips through Dad’s journal while he scrolls through his contact list, much revised since he came here. He pauses when he gets to an entry about a hunt he never put much mind to, mostly because he wasn’t there and he never planned on staying this long.

_Boys staying at Truman High. Lead on-_

The rest is scratched out with such vigor the page ripped a little and Sam once again curses his father for his secrecy. It’s not like he can’t figure out what the entry is referring to anyway. It’s just that he never made the connection between John’s hunt for the yellow eyes demon and his extended hunts.

Thinking about it now, though... John has been going nuts lately, taking them across the country when there were perfectly good hunts much closer. It becomes obvious when Sam follows John’s movements in the diary, between the erased and ripped parts, that he was tracking a lead. A lead that led them straight here.

He flips through the violated pages a few more times while something niggles in the back of his mind. He stills when it finally dawns on him. Dean and his younger self should be attending Truman High in Sioux City right now. They’re nowhere near, they’re not even in Indiana.

Maybe for the first time Sam feels the true impact of his presence here. He’s actually changing things. A thrill goes through his spine and he focuses on breathing very slowly, in and out. It’s good. It’s what he hoped for.

It’s terrifying.

He picks up his phone again and dials without hesitation. His heart is beating fast in his chest and he clamps down on the worn leather of the journal. Seconds tick by and Sam is about ready to throw the phone in the wall when the call finally connects, John’s voice greeting him, gruff as ever.

“Winchester speaking.”

Sam breathes through his nose, keeping his voice steady even as cold tendrils run down his spine.

“John, you need to get back here immediately. Dean’s been taken.”

 

~*~

 

Dean becomes aware of his surroundings in stages. A gradual process of realizing he’s awake. First it’s the pain in his neck, the dryness of his mouth. Next comes the numbness in his hands and the headache pulsing behind his cranium. Finally the stiffness in his shoulders. He doesn’t open his eyes. It’s paramount in this type of situations, and boy did he wish he wasn’t a person who knew about this type of situations.

He’s tied to a chair, gagged and with blood drying at his temple. It’s dark around him, or at least not much light getting in. Cold, moldy air with dust drifting up, threatening to make him sneeze now that he’s awake.

“You don’t need to pretend, Dean,” a voice says softly to him, “I know you’re up.”

Dean raises his head carefully, but still the pulsing in his head increases and he holds back a groan. Why can’t the bad guys ever just kidnap him without crashing his car or knocking him unconscious? It’s so uncouth.

“Sorry about the inconvenience. I was busy, this was the fastest way and I don’t actually care if you die, so…,” the voice continues.

Dean blinks to get his eyes to focus and searches the room. Old, wooden, abandoned. The voice is coming from somewhere to his right but the shadows are thick with the windows boarded shut and Dean can’t make out more than the shape of a human. Could be a number of things, going off that.

“Who are you?” he ventures, in the hopes he’s dealing with a moron.

“Oh, I don’t think you need to know that. You’re not one of my special children after all…,” the voice croons and the hairs on Dean’s neck rise. “You are, however, the brother of one, which makes you special-adjacent, I suppose.”

“The fuck-?” Dean mutters, more to himself than this fugly.

“Don’t feel left out, you have your own part to play. In fact, that’s why I’ve brought you here, Dean.”

The shadow moves as he steps closer and Dean can finally make out some features. Guy in his forties, wearing a cheap suit and a nametag saying “Clint”. He has soft features and eyes that would be kind if there weren’t sharp yellow and glinting with vicious pleasure.

“Why’s’at?” he asks and twists his hands, feeling for some slack in the rope.

“Because you’re the most important person to your brother, Dean, and when he finds out you’re missing, he’s going to come running like there’s no tomorrow,” “Clint” says and the chuckles like he just thought of a joke only he’s privy to.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, confused.

Sammy’s pretty damn resourceful when he wants to be but Dean’s pretty sure he would bring Dad at least, and Dad’s smart, really smart, about hunts, so he doesn’t panic about it.

“No,” Clint answers and then considers, “well, yes. Time jumps are fun that way, aren’t they?”

Dean’s now operating under the presumption that Clint is a lunatic and that’s just perfect. Not only is he kidnapped by a supernatural freak, but it has to be a crazy one, too. Just his luck. He grimaces when the rope remains unyielding and bites at his skin.

“It’s not fair play, though, so that’s why I’m stepping in. Can’t have players with foreknowledge of the game on the board. Won’t be any fun!” Clint exclaims and the contradiction between his manic smile and the complete malice in his voice is unsettling.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asks and gently shifts around a bit to feel if his knife is still tucked in his jacket.

“If I tell you, what’s left for the surprise reveal, hmm?” Clint asks and almost absentmindedly starts fiddling with the knife Dean was looking for. “No, let’s just wait until that big Sam boy gets here,” he rasps in Dean’s ear and then throws the knife into the opposite wall with jeering accuracy.

“You leave Sam the fuck alone!” Dean yells and flinches when Clint’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“So possessive,” Clint clicks his tongue disapprovingly but there’s glee shining from his eyes when he steps around Dean to lean over him. “It’s practically indecent!”

Dean doesn’t want to ask _what_ one more time, so he settles for glaring when the dude breathes down on his face, personal space clearly a foreign concept to him.

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t know yet,” he continues, “Not that it would make much difference, I’m guessing.” The chuckle is rattling and Dean wants to take a shower just hearing it. “All in good time, Dean,” Clint says and trails a finger over the wound on his head, breaking the frail scabbing, “all in good time.”

 

~*~

 

“So what’s the plan?” John asks and isn’t that a reversal of things, Sam thinks a little hysterically.

“We’ll locate him, go there and kill the sonofabitch that took him,” Sam says and spreads the map over the wooden floor.

It’s been a long time since he used this kind of magic, but he remembers the spell like it was yesterday. For all that Ruby destroyed, she was surprisingly full of helpful tricks. If he hadn’t known to look for it, he might never have found the instructions in the Men of Letter’s library.

John scoffs by his side and Sam is sidetracked. “You can’t kill a demon,” he says, so certain and it throws Sam because this means John hasn’t even heard of the Colt at this time. What has he been doing going after Azazel without even knowing there was a chance to take him down? “Exorcise it, sure, but kill it? No way.”

Sam considers for a while. It’s too far away and will take too long to go and get the real Colt at Elkin’s, but… He thumbs the angel blade tucked in his pants.

“I’ve got a way,” Sam says and pours the concoction over the map, ignoring the protesting sound John makes, lights a match and drops it.

The fire catches immediately, the flames licking up the paper, and for a second Sam is unsure if he made a mistake and just grilled their map for no reason, but then he sees the circle it’s leaving open and he relaxes.

“You got a- What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” John demands. “Cause if it’s more spellwork I’m not sure it’s a good idea…”

“Don’t worry,” Sam says, distracted, and bends over the map as the flames start dissipating. “It’s not magic.”

A cabin, way up north in the middle of the forest. Figures. He snatches up the little remaining piece of paper that is all of what’s left of the map, and grabs his duffel. He’s already at the door when John’s voice calls him back.

“Sam, what kind of shit are you involved in?” he asks.

It reminds him so much of the time Dean asked him about his psychic powers he reels a bit. Suspicion is lurking in John’s eyes, his hand resting gently on the bowl where Sam made the concoction, and he hasn’t moved towards the door at all. Waiting.

Sam refrains from sighing. Of course he would pick now to question Sam’s loyalties. It’s been building up for a while now and he’s been trying to calm them but he guesses it’s a bit much to ask for his supernaturally discriminating dad to trust his sudden ease with magic and demon killing. God knows he would do the same.

“Look, I get it’s hard to believe but we don’t have time for this. I promise I’ll answer all your questions later, but right now we need to go get Dean,” Sam says, holding onto his calm by the skin on his teeth. _Let’s hope we’re not too late_ , he thinks.

John wavers and Sam almost sags in relief. They’re out the door in seconds. Sam doesn’t miss the looks John throws his way, but he ignores them.

They take John’s new car, the Sierra Grande, because Sam’s isn’t really one, just the one that happens to be closest when he needs to go somewhere alone. What with how they’re traveling together, it felt excessive to have three cars between them, and though he’s loathe to admit it, he kind of misses sitting in the car with John driving, always so steady.

There’s nothing steady about it now. They rip out of the parking lot, skid out on the road and keep a gut-twisting 20 mph speed above the limit.

“You sure you know where we’re going?” John asks but doesn’t hesitate taking the route Sam directs.

“I’m sure. Go right at the next intersection.”

Few words are spoken but Sam doesn’t try to break the silence. He’s not sure what he would say anyway. I’m sorry I let him take off? I’m just as worried as you, maybe more? It wouldn’t make a difference.

Instead he spends the time carving devil’s traps into the bullets he brought along. John glances at him every once in a while, and Sam can see he’s debating asking or not. Sam knows this can drag out for hours, John just as stubborn as his sons and has an even harder time admitting he doesn’t know something.

“It’s devil’s traps,” Sam offers and John hums as if he doesn’t care. “Shoot a demon with it and it’s as effective as painting one around them.”

“You sure about that?” John asks and Sam counts it as a win.

“If it can trap a Knight of Hell, I’m pretty sure it works on yellow-eyes.”

John looks at him quickly and turns back to the road, a frown cut deep in his face.

“I thought they were just a myth,” John says and Sam raises his eyebrows; he didn’t know John even knew about that.

“They’re pretty real, but extinct. Killed by their own master.”

John appears to have nothing to say to that and so the silence continues. It’s growing dark as the sun sets and Sam focuses his mind on what will happen when they arrive. It’s likely Azazel’s the one who caught Dean, but it might be some underling doing his dirty work. Sam doesn’t think so, though. Azazel always was a hands-on kind of demon.

They slow down when they get on the narrow track that will take them the last bit up to the cabin. Sam’s senses are tingling and when John cuts the engine, they’re engulfed by complete silence. Not even a cricket chirps, like the insects and animals have all just scattered, sensing the evil.

Sam checks his gun one last time, makes sure the angel blade is accessible and plucks the flask with holy water and tucks it into his pocket, just for back-up. John, ready with his own things, is staring at him inscrutably.

Sam makes a signal to move along quietly and John nods. The rest of the path is overgrown, twigs and branches hitting him in the face. It’s clear no one’s been here in a long time. No one human anyway.

They reach the cabin and it’s still eerily quiet. Sam’s not sure if he should be glad Azazel isn’t torturing him, or be worried they’re too late. This early in the game, he’s pretty sure even Azazel didn’t know about the vessel thing and killing Dean to get to Sam might just seem like a stellar plan.

Sam puts out a hand to stop John and then gestures for himself to go around back and John to take the front. The windows are boarded shut, their only option to go through the door. Hopefully there’s one in the back, too.

When Sam goes around the corner he can hear indistinct voices and he stifles the breath that wants to puff out in relief when he hears Dean grunting something. He’s alive. He didn’t even realize how tight the feeling in his chest has been since he found out Dean was gone.

He carefully picks the lock on the back entrance and sneaks inside, watching his step for squeaky floor boards. Inside, it smells like damp and mold has been aligning themselves to work through the construction. He gags and puts an arm in front of his mouth until he gets used to the smell.

It’s so dark inside he has to take a moment to let his eyes adjust, the light from outside shutting off when he treads further in. It looked small from the outside, but it’s surprisingly roomy on the inside. Two separate rooms and he can only be thankful he didn’t go blundering into the room where the demon is.

“Hear that, Dean?” someone asks and Sam pauses, holding his breath. “That must be Daddy, coming to the rescue,” he continues and then Sam hears it, too. The creaking of something coming from one of the windows. “Do you think he brought little Sammy with him?” the demon asks and chuckles when Dean growls at him.

Sam is relieved they left his younger self at home. He can only imagine what Azazel would do if he got face to face with one of his special children this early. Nothing good, he decides.

“Maybe that new friend of yours, _Sam_ ,” the demon says with such an emphasis that Sam pauses. Does he know? “Such a good hunter, and you two get along just famously, don’t you?”

Sam takes the last few steps up to the door on soft feet, listens to Dean making whining protests. Gagged, then. Dean wouldn’t let anyone insult his little brother without mouthing back.

“There, there,” the demon mock-soothes. “It’s not that strange if you think about it. I mean he is your-“

Sam kicks the door open and the demon cuts off, looking up at Sam with surprise on his face. Sam doesn’t waste a second but fire a bullet straight into his forehead, praying the person being possessed is already dead.

“Now, Sam,” the demon says and wipes off some of the blood running down his faces. “You and I both know that a bullet can’t hurt me.”

Dean is looking at him with eyes blown wide, signaling at him to get out there, quickly. His face is bruised but not too bad, and he appears to be in a relatively okay state. Sam ignores him and stares at the demon, whose eyes flash its sickly yellow in amusement.

“Azazel,” Sam says.

Azazel grins and it’s an ugly thing.

Just then John finally break through the window and barge in. He stops when he sees the scene taking place in front of him and assesses it quickly. It’s no surprise he goes for the holy water and starts exorcising immediately.

Azazel hisses when the water hits his skin and Sam has to act quickly.

“John, stop!” he yells and John only pauses for a second.

In a normal situation, that hesitation would be enough for a demon to get their baring and counterattack but when his powers do nothing but hover around his body, he growls and flings his hand to increase his strength. Only when this does nothing, do John pause and look at Sam questioningly.

“Devil’s trap,” Sam explains and nods to his gun.

“Surely you don’t think that trick is going to work,” Azazel swears and visibly tries to take a step closer to Sam, but the invisible force from the trap keeps him in place.

“Not forever, no,” Sam admits and then plucks his angel blade from the place he stashed it.

Azazel’s eyes widen almost comically and Sam takes a second to enjoy the picture.

“I suppose things are very different in the future,” Azazel says, eyes not leaving the weapon.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Sam says through gritted teeth, because despite all the shit they’ve been put through, he puts a lot of blame on this filthy demon who for so long had been the start of everything.

“What does he mean?” John demands and Sam is shaken from his reverie, remembering they have an audience. “What is that?”

“Yes, _Sam_ , why don’t you tell him,” Azazel suggests with a silken voice.

Sam looks at John, and then down at Dean, who’s still bound and gagged and staring up at Sam with eyes filled with fear and confusion, and then back to Azazel.

“I could cut out your tongue,” Sam suggests and Azazel laughs at him.

“You could, but then who’s going to answer all of your questions, hmm?” he asks, so sure of himself, despite the situation he’s in, but that’s demons for you, Sam supposes, always brave in the face of danger, right up until they start carving into them.

“Who says I have any?” Sam asks and smiles vindictively when the grin melts away.

“Don’t you want to know the plan? Isn’t that why you’re here?” he asks but Sam can detect a hint of uncertainty now.

“I know about your plan,” Sam answers and he’s about to continue but John’s voice cuts in then.

“Great, how about you fill us in?” he says, looking at Sam, eyes hard as flint.

“He’s raising a little army of special children that are going to fight in his little war,” Sam says, watching carefully as Azazel relaxes, once again secure in his own deceive. “Of course, he doesn’t actually plan on letting all of them live. Just one survivor, one winner to open the Devil’s Gate, one winner to wear Lucifer to prom, one winner to bring on the apocalypse.”

He doesn’t register the gasp from John, or Dean flinching like someone slapped him. He only has eyes for Azazel. When the shock passes, his face lights up like a Christmas tree and he looks like he would be twirling in happiness if he wasn’t still bound by the devil’s trap embedded in his brain.

“So you know it all, Sammy,” he says gleefully. “That must mean you won. I always hoped you’d be the one. My favorite.”

It’s the familiar words, whispered to him back in Coal Creek, right before he was stabbed in the back and Dean sold his soul, that forces Sam to snap.

“I’m not your fucking pet,” Sam snarls and launches at Azazel.

It is perhaps lucky that he stands several feet away. The room flashes in a bright light, a high-pitched noise screeching through his ears and the earth rumbles beneath their feet as the veil is opened right there. Sam recognizes the celestial presence and dives down.

“Shut your eyes!” he yells through the earsplitting noise and only barely gets his body across Dean’s, covering him from the angel arriving.

It’s complete chaos. The white light blocks out anything else, spearing in between his eyelids but he presses his face in Dean’s neck while he cover’s Dean’s eyes with his chest. He can’t hear anything beyond the ringing hammering against his eardrums.

And then he can. The noise turns into sound, familiar yet foreign. Like a half-forgotten dream fighting up the surface and with every stride it tickles in his brain. Like seeing double or through distorted glass, he recognizes the language.

“OLANI OAI NOASMI NIIS OL, LEL,” the voice grounds through his head and Sam gasps.

_I’m coming for you, Sam_

He presses his hands more firmly over Dean’s ears and grinds his teeth together. The Enochian words would leave him in a cold sweat just as every time he catches a snippet of it, but there’s no room in him beyond the scratching against the inside of his skull.

Then it’s over. Almost as quickly as it started. Everything dies down, and the light diminishes so fast the room seems too dark all of a sudden. Sam blinks away the white spots in front of his eyes and looks around.

Underneath Sam, Dean seems to be faring okay. He’s staring up at Sam with a gleam in his eyes that tells Sam he’s not very far from panicking, but there is no blood in his ears, for which Sam is grateful. John is cowering in a corner, arms in front of his face and blood running down his neck.

Azazel is where they left him, but his eyes are burnt out and the sickly smell of burning flesh permeates the air.

Sam’s eyes finally land on the newcomer and he has to bite back a yell.

_Lucifer_.

Of course he would find him, how could he have been so stupid as to think Lucifer wouldn’t come after him to stop him from changing this, stopping the release from his prison?

“Sam,” the angel says and Sam does a double take.

Surely not… Right? But he could have sworn, that almost sounded like- But that’s impossible. He stands up and positions himself between the angel and his family.

“Cas?” he asks tentatively, holding out hope.

“Yes, it’s me,” Cas says, and Sam’s never been so happy to hear his gravelly voice.

He steps forward and pauses just a few feet away from Cas. His hands tremble.

“How are you-?” he asks and doesn’t know how to finish. _Here? An angel? Powerful enough?_

“Your decision to kill Azazel set off a complex chain reaction which I can best explain using a series of equations,” Cas answers, eyeing the room curiously.

It’s been a long time since he stormed into rooms with windblown hair, complete faith backing up his decisions and his grace creating power-outages. Glancing at John’s wary face and Dean’s freaked out expression, he guesses even Cas’ somewhat more casual appearance doesn’t negate the fact that he showed up in his true form at first. Thinking of that…

“Cas, what’s up with the light?”

“A glitch,” Cas says and that appears to be all he’ll say on the matter. He walks over to Dean and heals his face, ignoring it when Dean flinches away from his touch. “Dean,” he says, frowning when Dean just swallows, shaking faintly.

“Oh right,” Sam says, “this is Castiel, an angel.”

His statement is met with utter silence. It’s a bit much to swallow, maybe. He follows Cas to Dean, puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder to make him step away, and then releases Dean from his bindings. As soon as he’s free, he backs away, standing next to John and Sam tries to not be hurt by that.

“John Winchester,” Cas says, turning to him. “I don’t think we’ve met. Well, I have of course watched you, but in this vessel and on Earth. It’s, er, nice to meet you,” he says.

Cas is almost as awkward as he was the first couple of months and he hasn’t talked about his _vessel_ in years. It forces Sam to think about what he said. _A chain reaction_ … He wonders what changed.

“Cas,” he says, unsure, but Cas cuts in.

“You have to stop what you’re doing, Sam,” Cas says, turning back to him.

His eyes are icy blue and more distant than they’ve been in a long time. Not quite as bad as when he came in naming Sam the _boy with the demon blood_ but there is little of their shared history to find in that gaze.

“What are you talking about? I have a chance to _change_ _things_. For real this time!”

Cas stares at him solemnly and Sam bites back a few choice words.

“You don’t know what will happen,” Cas says.

“And you do?” Sam demands, feeling like a void has swallowed everything up in his chest.

“No, that’s the problem. The world as we know it is unraveling in the future. Your actions are already changing things and this, killing Azazel, can have catastrophic consequences.”

It’s not quite his Castiel-voice, but the conviction combined with his unique no-inflection way of talking makes it a near thing. It’s unsettling in ways Sam can’t name.

“Can!” he retorts with a pleading note. “It doesn’t mean it _will_ , and besides, what catastrophic thing can possibly happen that wouldn’t be better than all the crap that’s already gone sideways?”

He realizes he’s sweating and manually forces himself to calm down. He feels unbalanced without Dean standing next to him, providing a second perspective and support.

“It could unravel the universe!”

Sam pauses. That’s- That would be worse.

“Why?”

“Because you’re destroying plans that have been written since the beginning of time. You can’t change destiny!”

Sam feels like someone punched him in the gut.

“Can’t change- Cas, we stopped the apocalypse! We threw out the rulebook and made our own damn destiny, one that wasn’t ruled by a bunch of pissed angels who missed their daddy!”

Cas looks stunned. “I-“, he says and sways on his feet. “Did we- I don’t remember. It’s all…wrong!”

The blood in Sam’s veins runs cold. “Cas, what do you remember?” he asks, tentatively.

“It’s strange, like the threads aren’t keeping still, like they’re fluid, moving. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Cas mumbles, sounding far away.

“So it comes down to what happens next,” Sam says as suddenly it all makes sense. “We have free will and so we decide, whether to let Azazel live and let things be as they were, or we change it. Before it even starts. Cas, it’s our second chance!” Sam exclaims, but his triumph is short-lived as suddenly Cas throws himself at Sam, fingers enclosing around Sam’s neck in an iron grip. They crash to the floor and Sam’s head swims when the back of his head impacts with the ground.

It’s useless to struggle, his human strength is nothing compared to the full force of an angel.

“Cas,” he chokes out.

“As it is written, so it shall come to pass, you must not stop it,” Cas intones and his voice is growing less human by the minute.

“You have a choice,” Sam gasps. “You don’t have to do what they tell you to. Fight it, Cas. Please!”

He stretches out a hand to touch Cas’ face and the angel twitches, surprise breaking through his wall of resolve. It’s a second before he moves and the world loses its focus, black spots dancing into his field of vision, but finally Cas releases him and scrambles back. He looks down on his hands, horrorstruck.

“Cas,” Sam croaks and his throat burns. “Cas, it’s okay. Listen to me, you can’t let it control you. You’re in charge of your own actions. Prove it!”

Cas looks at him then and he looks so vulnerable, the sheen in his eyes betraying how much he _feels_ , and Sam is so relieved because there is the friend who has saved his life and fought by their side for so long.

Sam gets to his feet slowly, his muscles feel weak and he trembles when the adrenaline drains away. He looks at Dean and swallows. Fear, unabated and unrestrained, is staring back at him. It breaks his heart. He never wanted to put that face on his brother’s face again. When he takes a step closer, John moves in front of Dean, a warning.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says.

Dean’s jaw clenches and John doesn’t move.

He picks up the angel blade he dropped and walks over to Azazel. He’s just standing there, head bowed down and blood oozing down his face still.

“Are you sure?” Cas asks and Sam tenses. “You’ve done a lot of good in the world and for all we know, it will still happen and this time we lose.”

“No,” Sam says. “Without Azazel, there is no one to search out Lucifer’s instructions, no one to put the plan into action. It ends with him. Besides, if I don’t die in his stupid little game of survival of the fittest, Dean won’t sell his soul to bring me back and the first seal won’t break.”

He hears the gasp from the corner just as he remembers to filter his words. With the big secret revealed it feels like the dam has been broken and everything just comes pouring out. Dean and John both look shocked by the proclamation of Dean selling his soul for Sam. They of course don’t know what Sam’s relation is to them, and _family_ is still the strongest bond they have.

“You don’t know that. Your family has a propensity for dying,” Cas states even as Sam winces. “And the angels will try to ensure it happens anyway. They were a just as large part of the scheming,” Cas warns.

“Still, without Azazel, without Lilith, his contract will be easier to void. It won’t be the same. Besides, we’ll tell them,” he nods at John and Dean, “and they’ll know what to avoid.”

“Telling them about the future is… ill-advised,” Cas says and Sam snorts.

“More ill-advised than going into the past and messing up the entire plan that God, the angels, demons and sisters of Destiny all agreed on?”

“I’d say slightly less ill-advised than that,” Cas says, straight-faced.

“Well, in that case,” Sam turns to John and Dean.

He’s just about to open his mouth when the world shivers around them and they all freeze. Sam recognizes the feeling immediately. He has spoken to her many times by now. A quiver works its way down his spine. He turns slowly to face her as she appears before them.

“Billie,” he greets her.

“Sam,” she replies.

“Have you come to reap me, finally?” he asks as she looks around the room, taking in the demon, angel and his family.

“I have,” she replies.

She’s calm, as always and though she appears young and fashionable in that way reapers do to make transition easier, Sam can sense the ancient patience, wisdom old as time, the same way he can in Cas. It’s a humbling experience. He nods and holds back tears because at last his time is up.

“NO!” Dean roars and Sam flinches.

Only John’s arms enclosing around him and pulling him back stops him from launching himself at Billie. He’s panting, red from the exertion of struggling against his dad and tears glistening in his eyes and Sam hates the look on his face. Desperate, hurt, angry, beyond rational thought.

“Will I get to do this before I go?” Sam asks, gesturing towards Azazel and his family, keeping an eye on his little older brother. “Do I get a choice?”

Billie regards him seriously for what feels like an eternity. Sam’s heart is thudding painfully in his chest. He could scramble for the blade, kill Azazel before she takes him, but he knows as surely as the world keeps on turning, that if Billie means no, she will stop him before he blinks.

“It’s your choices that leads you here,” she says and while Sam mulls that over, she walks over to Cas who stiffens when she approaches. “Castiel,” she says.

“Leliel.”

Billie shows her teeth in a smile that has nothing to do with happiness. “You really shouldn’t be here. If your present counterpart feels you, he will come,” she says evenly.

“What about your counterpart?”

“I trust myself,” she responds and then looks at Sam. “Well?”

Sam decides then, his choice, because he gets it. If he kills Azazel, the world changes as he knows it, changes himself. He won’t have a future to go back to, won’t have a body his soul will fit in, and he can’t stay here without upsetting the balance. He kills Azazel and he kills himself. He looks at Dean who has given up struggling and is just slumped over, resting in John’s arms. He is a wreck, staring desperately at Sam, begging him to stay.

It’s worse than he imagined, leaving him behind. He thought he made up his mind years ago, that dying for a good cause is good enough, how he wants to go. He remembers his last trial, the one that was supposed to close the gate of Hell forever, and how Dean, begging him to let it go, had managed to change his mind. He can’t let him, this time. It’s so much more at risk. Everything they’ve ever fought against, every costly win, every major defeat; he’s able to undo them.

He swiftly raises the angel blade and pierces Azazel’s heart. As the sword goes in, Azazel screams. Sam thinks of the last time this demon was killed and decides he’ll never grow tired of seeing the life drain out of this particular source of evil.

The screaming turns into a gurgling when the demon finally dies in a shock of electric sparks. Sam locks eyes with Dean and doesn’t break away, meeting that enquiring, fearful look head on. The demon, just a body now, crashes to the floor when Sam pulls the blade out, bloody.

He steps over the corpse and walks over to John and Dean. John looks shocked, unable to tear away from the lifeless shape on the floor. Sam can relate, that unbelievable moment when you realize they can be killed, that they’re dead, that it’s over. Dean’s lower lip is trembling, though, and Sam suppresses the urge to wrap him up in his arms and never let go.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to witness all this. I know you’re used to giving the ‘the truth is out there’ speech, but this must be a lot to take in, even for you,” he says and watches as John’s eyes slide over to the two angels standing behind Sam, waiting for him.

“Angels?” he says, finally. “The apocalypse? It’s all real?”

“Very real, I’m afraid. And much closer than we ever thought.”

“Who _are_ you?” John finally asks and Sam looks up, then down on the floor. He was going to tell them, but now, just laying it all bare, if they haven’t got it already; it’s going to wreck them.

“My name’s not really Sam Wesson,” he admits. “It’s Sam Winchester.”

He waits until the words sink in. John growing pale and Dean makes a sound.

“Hi, Dad,” he says with a weak smile at John. “Dean,” he looks at Dean.

“So, from the future, huh?” John says, apparently suspending his disbelief, or just amazing at adapting, Sam can’t tell.

“Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

He feels ridiculous, standing there, under the searching scrutiny of a version of his dad he got to know much better than his own. He squirms and drags a hand through his hair. Dean’s gaze burns his skin, as it travels all the way from his feet up to his head, which is above both of theirs.

“You got tall, son,” John says and Sam chokes out a laugh.

“Yeah. I did.”

He doesn’t know what to say, and they appear equally tongue-tied. He eventually clears his throat.

“So, I’m not sure how much you heard, or understood, but basically, Azazel, yellow-eyes, was the one who killed Mom, and he was setting everything up to start the apocalypse. It hopefully won’t, now, but, just to be safe… don’t sell your soul. Ever.”

“What do you mean?” John asks, predictably.

“In my time, we were hit by a car and Dean would have died hadn’t you sold your soul for him,” Sam says to John who looks suitably surprised. “And then you died and went to Hell. Real place by the way.

“And then about a year later, when Azazel gathered his ‘special children’ up to kill each other, I died and Dean sold his soul to bring me back.”

“Geez,” Dean breathes out. “It just goes round and round, doesn’t it?”

Sam would laugh, but he’s got a lump in his throat. “It’s written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell, and when Dean died, they tortured him until he broke and-“, he chokes and wishes he didn’t have to go over this part. Dean’s looking at him, not in shame, though, but worry and Sam realizes that it’s all theoretical to him, these words can’t hurt him. He can’t grasp the pain of it and so he won’t. “And the first seal broke, bringing on the apocalypse.”

“What? It’s my fault?” Dean asks in horror, face pale.

“NO! No, God, of course not. It’s _Hell_ , Dean. No one goes through that without changing, without being twisted. It’s how demons are made. Besides, saying it’s hard to fight something when Heaven and Hell align is an understatement.”

“Still… If I just hadn’t-“

“If it makes you feel any better, I broke the last seal in a foolish attempt to avenge you. I released Lucifer from the cage and the end began,” Sam says and Dean’s eyes snap up to his. “My point is that neither of us knew and we were manipulated for months, years by powers we weren’t ready to take on. And we still managed to win.

“We stopped it. We stopped the apocalypse.”

“How?” Dean asks, reverent.

“By believing in each other,” Sam says and gives in and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Sam,” Cas says from somewhere behind him and Sam casts a quick look at him. “You should hurry. There is more they need to know and I can feel the stirrings in Heaven.”

“Right,” Sam mutters. “If the apocalypse does start, you need to find Death, the horseman-“

“Death is dead,” Billie interferes and Sam looks at her, shocked.

“What do you mean he’s dead? We haven’t killed him in this time!”

“Death is now and always. When you killed him, you ripped him from the flow of time. If it would have been as simple as going back to warn him, don’t you think we would have?” Billie asks, an undercurrent of anger trailing along her words just beneath the tranquil demeanor.

Sam is stunned. He has no idea how this even works, because if he doesn’t stop the apocalypse from ever happening in this timeline, it will not only be devastating in its force, it will also end the world, for real. Their strategy, the rings, Death’s ring, won’t exist, thus Lucifer cannot be put back in the cage. He begins to understand what Cas meant by the universe unraveling. It’s not an angel thing, or a destiny thing. It’s a _paradox_.

Sam turns slowly back to John and Dean, who are looking strangely at him. “So, uh, don’t go to Hell,” he says, his voice doing something strange.

“You’re talking about actual Death, right?” Dean implores, sounding unsure. “And you, what, killed him?”

“It’s complicated,” Sam tries, because as much as he wants his new future to have a fighting chance against all the shit they’ve come up against, it doesn’t really matter at this point. He takes a look at Dean’s skeptical look, though, and realizes he must give them more than that. He draws a deep breath. “Death wanted you, well, the other you, older you, to kill me and travel with him to another dimension so that a curse wouldn’t erupt and let God’s evil sister into the world.” He realizes even as he says it how crazy it all sounds and closes his mouth. “Look, it doesn’t even matter. That will never happen.”

“How come?” Dean asks, looking worried.

“Because, in 2013, when our grandfather, Henry Winchester,” he looks at John briefly, “you dad, shows up in our motel room looking for John, he’s going to but a bullet in Abaddon, a Knight of Hell, and then you are going to dismember her and bury her in cement all over the country and never _ever_ dig her up again.”

He looks at Dean, boring his eyes into him until he understand the import of his words. Then he looks at John who is wearing an expression of confusion and anger.

“My dad, he traveled in time?” he says, sounding more than a little dubious.

“Your dad didn’t abandon you, John. He saved our lives, and many others. He just happened to do it in the future and he never had a chance to go back and tell you. He’s a hero. He died a hero.”

John lips are thin but Sam can detect a soft sheen in his eyes. He nods and looks away. It feels good to get some closure for his dad’s sake.

Behind him, Billie is standing by the boarded up window, staring out for all the world like she can see through the planks. Sam doesn’t think she’s gazing at the view outside, though, from the faraway look on her face.

“I need to go,” he says, turning to John and Dean.

“What’s going to happen to you?” Dean asks and Sam thinks he must know, but his pigheaded brother refuses to admit it, even to himself.

“I’ve changed history, Dean. I’ve managed to do things I didn’t think was possible, and with this second chance you are going to be okay. But for me, I don’t know what I have to go back to. I don’t know if there’s a world waiting for me. Maybe there’s another me there and I hope he’s happy.

“Take care of each other, don’t mess with Fate unless Fate messes with you first and never trust an angel. Or a demon.”

He steps up to Dean and presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead. “I love you,” he whispers into the skin there and Dean shakes in his arms.

“Sam,” he says and grips Sam’s arm, and though he won’t say it, the words are still there, _don’t go_.

“I can’t stay here,” Sam says and touches his cheek, his fingers tracing the skin lingeringly like if he’s slow enough he’ll just sink right in.

He turns to John who’s looking at Sam with tears in his eyes and a tight jaw. “Dad,” he lets out and waits, still unsure of how he’ll be received.

“Son,” he says and Sam lets himself be enveloped in John’s arms.

When they’re a breath away from each other, he turns carefully to whisper in John’s ear, just three little words he never got to say to his dad. Not in a meaningful way, not so he remembered and understood.

_I forgive you._

Sam feels him stiffen and jerk away so he backs off and they stare at each other for a long moment. Then he nods and moves over to Billie, who’s watching them now.

He looks at Cas and gives him a hug. The angel, after so many years, is still stiff in his arms, but his arms wrap around him in a tentative grip.

“There aren’t words,” he says to Cas when they let go.

Cas stares at him intently, eyes ever so eerily gazing deep into him. Sam has always liked that about Cas; honest in his curiosity, his intent, his anger. A lot goes unexpressed between them but Sam likes to think they understand each other, even when words have never been part of their communication.

“Will you stay with them?” he asks.

Cas squints at him. “I always intended to, Sam.”

Sam breathes out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’m ready,” Sam says and stands beside her.

He takes Billie’s hand.

His family stands there, together. A little broken, a little rough around the edges but, hopefully, with a much brighter future. His heart gives a tight squeeze. Things might be different now, he thinks, he hopes. Humans were never meant to have this much influence in the universe, and in a twisted way, even at the cosmic level he’s operating, he is fixing it. It will be better now.

 

 

The world disintegrates.

 

 

 

As the contours and light are distorted, blend and deteriorate, only his hold on Billie’s hand is solid.

 

They move through a cold vacuum that crushes around him and pushes him in all directions at once.

 

He would                                       scream

but he has                                     no                        voice.

 

 

His body is                                     tearing                                            apart

 

 

his               cells                     are                                                    s  p  l  i  t  t  i  n  g                          o  p  e  n  .

 

 

the                      molecules         that make        him up

 

 

d                          i                            v                           i                            d                          e                           .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

After Sam has gone, and Dean’s mind is still reeling at that one, things are strange for a while.

When they get back to the motel, Sammy’s waiting for them gray in the face from worrying. They try to explain about Sam but he just shakes his head, knows, and Dean wants to rail at that but Dad puts a hand on his shoulder and he might just crumble.

The guy in trench coat, the _angel_ , Dean shudders over the thought, puts his hands on them and makes something burn in their torsos.

“Protection against my kind,” he says in that ridiculously gravelly voice and then he disappears.

They stay two more nights, breaking their crazy track record of late and at first Dean thinks it’s because Dad, along with him and Sammy, is waiting for Sam to come back. It takes Dean a while to realize it’s because the demon is dead. The evil sonofabitch that killed their mom is actually dead. It leaves something hollow in his chest.

When they do get back on the road it’s weird. Sam wasn’t with them all that long but he filled a space in their lives and it’s noticeable, the gap he leaves.

Come November they enroll Sammy in a school in Massachusetts and Dad gets them a house by semi-legal means. When he finds a hunt a couple of weeks later, they hold their breaths, but he takes Dean on a weekend trip and doesn’t mention moving even once.

Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s roll by without them moving and Dean gets a part-time job and Sammy starts hanging out with the kids in his class.

It’s well into 1998 before Dad sits them down at the kitchen table and tells them about a rise of demonic possessions in Arizona. Dean understands what it means and Sammy’s shoulder start to slope.

“I never gave you boys the childhood you deserved,” Dad says in a gruff voice and Dean starts to shake his head in denial. “I never thought I’d still be doing this for so long, you know. I always said just this hunt, just until we catch him.”

Dean recognizes the words, a mantra he kept going in his early teens when never staying for more than a few weeks at a time was growing tiresome. They’re words he stopped believing a long time ago.

“Seeing Sam, though…” Dad goes on and both Dean and Sammy still. Dad hasn’t spoken of Sam even once since he left. “It made me realize that there’s no stopping. Even, even when we get him, it never ends, and I had to come to terms with that.”

Dean is watching him avidly, wondering where this is going. Sammy is practically vibrating next to him.

“I get it now, I do, that I need to think long term and that includes an education and a more stable home,” Dad says and he looks at Sammy. “I’m not going to stop hunting, I can’t,” he pauses and swallows, “but there are other ways. I’ve spoken to Bobby and he’s agreed to let you boys stay at his place if you want to, or-“, he trails off.

“Or?” Dean asks, voice strangely high.

“You’re old enough now, Dean. If you want to you can live by yourself, keep Sammy with you-“

Sammy collapses in on himself and Dean doesn’t understand he’s crying until his shoulders start shaking. He doesn’t know what to do but pulls him to his body, growing so quickly now.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more for you. I know you never asked for this,” Dad says and he sounds choked up but keeps going. “I just want to give you an option. I think I’ll sleep better knowing there’s an angel watching over you now and with the demon dead…”

It’s a testament to how strange their lives are but Dean understands where he’s coming from. The world has become so much more scary over the past couple of months, the awareness that there are angels out to get them, that the apocalypse is nigh, and still. Sam’s faith that he left them for a better future percolates in their thoughts as a comfort.

“Anyway, I thought I might drop by when I pass on the way somewhere, and we’ll get together like a proper family on the holidays.”

“It’s perfect, Dad,” Dean whispers and buries his nose in Sammy’s hair.

 

 

 

Their lives after that become a whole new experience. Dad is gone but after months of taking longer trips, staying longer it feels like a runway of increasing separation and Dean and Sammy fare okay.

They get an apartment together and Sammy picks the school he’s going to graduate in. He spends his days studying while Dean works in a garage near where they live.

On the weekends they drive out to Uncle Bobby and do their practice drills. Sammy becomes pretty astounding at Latin and Dean learns to paint sigils so intricate Bobby starts muttering under his breath whenever he sees them.

They don’t hunt much anymore. Every once in a while Dad will call to get back-up or Bobby will send them to check something out locally but mostly they just keep prepared while they try to make the most of life as it is given to them.

Castiel has a tendency to pop up in moments they least expect him to. Bobby almost shot him once when he slipped into existence in the middle of the living room during poker night but Castiel didn’t even blink. He will look at them with that unsettling gaze and proclaim everything fine, seemingly expecting a certain reaction but when Dean just shrugs and thanks him, Castiel will blink and be gone.

Sometimes he stays for a little while. He’ll sit on the couch and stare at Sammy where he studies, or lean more or less comfortably on Baby that looks so practiced Dean has to hide a cringe, while he fixes her up. It makes Dean wonder what kind of relationship Castiel had with the Sam and Dean of the future. He gave up his home and family to watch over two strangers. When the thought gets too depressing he hands over a beer to the man and chuckles at his confused expression.

 

On Sammy’s graduation they invite Dad and Bobby and are surprised when Ellen and Jo and Pastor Jim shows up, too. Sammy starts crying and denies it until he’s blue in the face when Dean teases him. He holds the valedictorian speech and Dean’s heart swells in pride.

In the evening he and Sammy sneak away from the celebrations held at Bobby’s. They sit down on the edge of a cliff that faces out over Sioux Falls and in the setting sun it’s all drenched in a beautiful pinkish color.

He brings with a bottle of Champagne which they share straight from the bottle, passing it between them. Sammy leans on Dean, his shoulder soaking up the heat from their bodies. Sammy giggles like a girl because he has never been drunk before and Dean is inordinately pleased that he’s the one who gets to see him like this.

When the sun sets it becomes cold and they huddle closer. Dean feels a certain peace in this moment where he’s tucked close enough to Sammy he can feel his chest expand from breathing.

Eventually it grows cold enough that even their shared heat isn’t enough and they’re both shaking. They hurry back but Dean stops under a tree just out of sight from the old salvage yard. Sammy stops with him and looks back at him, down now because he’s grown like a freaking giant.

“Dean?” he asks uncertain and Dean hesitates.

It’s like an ocean between them, all the unspoken things and Dean feels it pull at him. Sam takes a small step closer, leaving barely an inch between them.

“Dean?” he asks again and when Dean looks into those green eyes he feels nothing but sure.

He pulls him in until they’re no more than a breath’s width away from each other.

“Sammy,” he whispers and looks at Sam until his eyes widen and he gasps in a lungful of air in surprise.

It feels like an eternity but it’s been in the making for so long. His breath stutters when their lips touch and everything he hears is _finally_ singing in his heart.

 

 

~*~

 

 

In a universe split from this one by chance so slim even Fate Herself couldn’t have thought it possible, a brother and sister grab hands and ascend in a swirl of light and dark.

Two brothers watch it happen, watch them go higher and higher until they’re barely a spot on the clear blue sky and then they’re gone. If someone else had looked up that moment they would have seen the two most powerful forces in the universe leave Earth and would never have known how close they got to destroying it.

One turns to the other and says, “D’you think they’re happy?”

They both know who he’s talking about, and it’s no celestial beings.

“I do.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
